


Stark Naked

by Ladeeknight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Medium Burn, Reunion Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-07-03 21:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 46,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15827502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladeeknight/pseuds/Ladeeknight
Summary: Sansa decides to go to King's Landing for the peace summit. Little Finger tags along. They meet the boat coming down from East Watch carrying the captured undead. She leaves Arya in charge of the North. This will be my own special blend of book and show cannon mixed with things I think should have happened. This is my first time sharing a fan fic, so be gentle, but don't hold back.





	1. Widow by Choice

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to GRRM.

Sansa pulled back her hood to lay her head bare to the silvery flakes that fell through the moonlight. It was a foolish summer child thing to do, but snowflakes by moonlight were rare in the North where clouds that dropped snow were usually thick enough to preclude celestial light. Tonight however, where Sansa stood on the docks of White Harbor there were clear skies to the East where the moon was rising over the over the Narrow Sea. Sansa felt like saving up the crisp Northern chill as she was once again reluctantly heading south.

She was alone for the moment while Podrick Payne unloaded the pack horses and Petyr Baelish settled their tab with the innkeeper. Sansa's plump, slightly chapped upper lip crimped in a sneer at the thought of the smarmy Lord Bealish dawdling so that he wouldn't have to spend any significant amount of time in the cold. Then her coppery brow furrowed, or perhaps even more unsettling, that he was sending a final raven bearing some sort of scheme to gods only knew who. She hadn't really wanted him to accompany her on this voyage as she knew him to be the antithesis of peace, but she had been afraid to leave him at Winterfell with all the knights of the Vale and Arya.

Her sister had been particularly difficult lately. Sansa had done some preventative investigating in Arya's room and found faces, proving her mother's adage that snoopers and eavesdroppers never learned anything good. As of old, a quarrel had ensued, but unlike with their childhood spats, Sansa had been deeply unsettled by Arya. She admitted to herself that was part of the reason why she had decided to go to King's Landing.

As Sansa's mind swirled around potential schemes that Petyr might be hatching and how they could affect her family, a lone boat stroked toward shore. Sansa had seen it launch from the ship anchored in the moon pool out in the harbor flying a dragon sail. The moon's reflection had not had time to fully leave the ship by the time the rower got close enough to set Sansa's heart thundering. His huge frame made the rest of the boat look almost like a toy. His back was to her and she could see powerful muscles rippling even through his winter clothes. His hood had fallen down at some point, or maybe been pulled aside to relieve the heat of his exertions, to reveal black hair straggling across his shoulders. _It can't be,_ Sansa thought. She knew Jon had gone beyond the wall to bring back the dead in order to convince Cersei to cease hostilities, a fool's errand if Sansa had ever heard one. Knowing what she did of Cersei Lannister, that woman would only cease her hostility when she ceased to breathe. _How could he have brought this man back? How would the Others have even gotten to his corpse when he had died so far South of the Wall._ Sansa's blood was racing through her veins as quickly as thoughts were darting through her brain. Her breath must have been coming fast as well for Podrick was soon at her elbow. "My Lady?" he queried.

"It's nothing, Ser," she lied, her voice sharpened by impatience with her own panic. She'd given sweet, kind Pod a title that he deserved, but had not quite earned as anxiety played havoc with her senses. Ever since she had decided to go back to King's Landing, a week ago, Sansa had been suffering from shortness of breath, rapid pulse, and flash backs of memories long suppressed in order to survive everyday life and be fit to rule the North. _You silly girl. Turn around and go back to Winterfell if you are going to start seeing ghosts in every corner,_ she berated herself. The Hound was not the only large, dark haired man in Westeros, but he was dead.

The memory of Petyr nearly gloating as he set a charred and dented helmet on the desk of his private study where he'd summoned her one night not long after her Aunt Lysa's death came rushing up to take hold of her mind. He’d beckoned her around to his side of the desk as the smell of fine bees wax wafting off of fresh lit candles permeated the air. Sansa didn't want to go, but Alayne could find no reason why she wouldn't seek to see the front of the helm. His voice was so weighed down with false sympathy that she felt coated and sticky with it. Also when the shape of the thing finally became clear, Sansa could no longer stand, so great was the weight upon her heart, and so sank unprotestingly into Petyr's lap. "Alayne, child, I know you never knew the Lannister dog, but his is a cautionary tale of what happens to good tools that stray beyond their master's reach. Rust and ruin," Petyr chided and then made a little tsking sound. "And it looks like some burning too," he continued flicking the unbroken ear that was blackened by fire with his perfectly manicured fore finger. It was the side that had covered the real Hounds burns. Sansa's heart squeezed painfully knowing how terrifying his end must have been if it involved fire. She wanted to scoop up the helm and run to her tiny cell of a bed chamber and roll it up in an old stained cloak. _No,_ she thought, curling her fingers so that her long sharp nails dug painfully into her he palms. _Be Alayne._

Alayne knew this to be a test. Most things were with her father. A test or a lesson or both. She folded her features until they were perfectly schooled into polite horror with just a hint morbid curiosity. "Father, whatever is this?"

Petyr went on at length to describe the Hound in all his brutal glory. How he had been raised from adolescence by Tywin Lannister to be a fearsome guard dog for his beautiful golden daughter. How once that daughter had become queen and given birth to a crown Prince the guard dog had practically raised the monstrous prince. How that guard dog had been so loyal, he had brutally murdered a child at the behest of the Prince. Petyr went on to describe how the Hound had kicked in the door of the Tower of the Hand and led the slaughter of the Hand's household that included all the guards and a septa, heavily insinuating that the Hound raped her perhaps before and after she was dead. Alayne had gasped artfully, as only a bastard can, at the gory details. Details that never would have been shared with a true born daughter. "But that is not the most scandalous thing," Petyr whispered in her ear. At the time neither Alayne nor Sansa had truly understood what was digging into their lower back. "This animal, this ugly beast, barely masquerading as a man developed a lascivious obsession with his Prince's betrothed. He was seen out with her at night. They were unchaperoned in the city, where anything could have happened. And on the night the Blackwater burned and the cur finally proved the yellow of his house's colors, he tried to run away with the Princess to be." By now Petyr's voice had winnowed down to a hiss and Sansa stiffened despite Alayne's best effort. This was the true purpose of Petyr's lesson tonight. He wanted her to know that he'd known what went on in her rooms in King's Landing. If Petyr knew about the Hound offering to take her away from King's Landing then he probably knew that she'd spent the night curled up in the stained white cloak that Sandor had discarded, before leaving her for good, he probably knew about the kiss. "Oh don't look so pale, Alayne," Petyr said as he ran the back of his fingers across her bloodless cheek. "Once he slipped his leash," Petyr continued in a brisk tone, "he became The Raper of Salt Pans. But don't let him trouble your dreams, sweetling. Some true knights ran him to ground and put a torch to a pyre at his feet." _Can Petyr know that I dream of Sandor?_ The question rang in Sana’s head like a bell.

For a moment, the eyes of Sansa Stark met Petyr Bealish's for the first time in months of playing at being Alayne, when she turned to look over her shoulder at him through dye darkened hair. "You're wrong about the middle part. He never had any feelings for the silly little bird," she all but spat the pet name at Petyr "that flitted around a castle full of lions as blithely as if she were in a wolf's den."

A chill spilled down Sansa's spine that had nothing to do with the silvered snowflakes in her lashes. Pod was solicitously holding her elbow, the only thing preventing her from kneeling on the docks; the weight of Sandor Clegan's death still that heavy upon her heart. Now that she was a widow by choice wedded and bedded by a Bolton, she knew exactly what could have happened to her in the halls of the red keep if her white shadow had not been drunkenly dogging her heals. The sound of the boat bumping up against the dock brought her fully out of her reverie. She looked up as the rower turned to face her.


	2. Surly by Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind that this story is set in a blend of book and show cannon with a Ladeeknight twist.  
> For instance, Sandor did spend time on the Quiet Isle, but that haven was attacked by bandits and burned.  
> A twist that I have added is that Jon Snow rode the second dragon out of the mission beyond the Wall. I never liked the way that the show did it, so I have re-imagined it for my own purposes.

Sandor awoke with a splitting head ache to Jorah Mormont standing over him explaining that Jon had been hurt pretty bad during his dragon’s landing, but that they were still heading south. If Sandor didn’t know any better he’d say the quirk at the side of the other man’s mouth was a smile. “Why the fuck am I on a ship?” Sandor asked, letting anger mask his disappointment.

“Because we need someone to guard the prisoner,” Jorah answered, his shit eating grin not lessening one bit as he kicked the side of the wight box. The boot to wood sound echoed all throughout Sandor’s hangover, but the hissing a scrabbling that followed sobered him right the fuck up. “And you figured I’m just the dog for the job,” Sandor growled, not even trying to help his case. When you know you’re fucked there is no reason to be quiet about it.

“If the collar fits…” Jorah agreed, the smile dropping from his face.

Sandor reeled to his feet and got down in Jorah’s face. “Take a nice long look. You won’t find a collar, or a cock ring like the one the pretty little queen leads you around by. I’m my own man now, and I’ll be getting off this fucking ship at the next stop.”

“You will,” Jorah agreed not backing down from the palpable anger rolling of Sandor, thought his nostrils did flare at the larger man’s rank morning breath. Jorah’s eyes narrowed at the words “cock ring” and all its implications. “I came down to spell your guard duty so you can row ashore and pick up some supplies and Northern representatives for the peace summit.”

Sandor snorted. “And why don’t _you_ row over and pick up these Northern representatives?” Sandor watched the other man’s face intently. He’d spent years standing in the background of conversations and debriefings. Beyond his size and fighting prowess, the Lannisters prized Sandor for his loyalty and his shit attitude, which translated into him not having any friends. With no one in his life for him to tell their secrets to, they cared little for what he overheard. Sandor knew quite a bit about the man standing in front of him from listening to Tywin debrief Lannister his spies. “Afraid no one from the North will get in a boat with you?”

Jorah’s leathery face lost some of its color and there was a tightening around his eyes. “I did not ask why, I just followed my orders,” he stated in his mild Northern tones that grated on Sandor’s last nerve.

“Fuck your orders,” Sandor growled. He knew what was happening was important. He’d seen the armies of the dead, in the fucking fire, and in his fucking face. He also knew that Sansa Stark was sitting in a castle closer to the Wall and walking death than he was. That feeling made him very uncomfortable. “I’ll row over there and load supplies and herd Lordling cunts, but when I get back, you or some other fucking shit stain is rowing my ass back to shore. I’ve taken no oaths here, and I have other shit to do. You’ve got til get back to come up with something.”

Jorah’s piercing eyes studied him for a long moment. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Sandor poked one blunt meaty finger into the Northerner’s chest. “I’ll have your, bloody fucking word, or I’ll row ashore and just get off the gods danmed boat and start walking.”

“Do that, and your name will be mud, Clegane” Jorah threatened.

Sandor let out a barking laugh. “My name is already, shit, just like yours. I hope one of those representatives knows how to row a boat.” Sandor bent and gathered up his pack and began buckling on his sword belt. “Hope you like the sound of this thing. You’re gonna be down here til you reach King’s Landing,” Sandor said as brushed past Jorah and headed up the stairs to the deck of the ship.

It was cold as a wight’s tit up there and the boat seemed to be anchored right between blinding heavens and cold as fuck hells. The moon coming up over the Narrow Sea was bright enough to make the White Harbor docks visible. Sandor could see a lone woman waiting. Snow was falling all around her so all he could tell was that she had a rather statuesque figure. _All the teets in the world won’t help her if she can’t row,_ he thought as he climbed into small row boat.

 _Always the bloody fucking short straw for me_ , Sandor thought or possibly growled under his breath as he climbed into the small boat, stowing his gear to the squeal of the crank that lowered the it into the Narrow Sea. _First a sad cunt of a father,_ he thought as he grabbed up one oar. _Next a horror of a brother,_  his thoughts continued their well traveled path as Sandor grabbed up the other oar. _Both leading to the burnt short straw that is the ruin_ _of this fucking face of mine._ So on and so forth Sandor cataloged the short straws that led him to monster sitting a fucking dead man in a box on a slow boat back to the very last fucking place he ever wanted to see again. All this shit, when what he really wanted to do was travel overland to Winterfell and pledge his life to Sansa Stark. _Be honest with yourself you sorry arsehole, you’d also like to see Sansa fucking Stark, naked writhing on the end of your cock singing your name and begging you not to ever stop fucking her._ He laughed derisively at himself. _A man’s gotta have a dream._ “A dream or a leash,” Elder Brother had said once while Sandor was digging graves on the Quiet Isle “A man needs something to guide him through this life.” For 30 odd years it had been a leash for Sandor. Now it would be an unattainable dream so he wouldn’t have to worry about setting new goals.

But there was always one more thing to do before he could get to her, he thought as the boat hit the water with small splash. It was even bloody fucking colder near the water and he allowed his rage to simmer and warm him. Elder Brother would be disappointed in him. He took a deep breath in through his nose that was so cold the exhalation from his mouth was a blue streak of curse words that he could actually see as his icy breath. Elder Brother be danmed tonight. Tonight was another short straw night and if he wanted to be pissed about it, at least it was one more thing to keep him warm while he rowed through this blooding fucking sea. And tonight he would start his journey toward Sansa and woe the blood buggering bastard that got in his way.

He rowed mindlessly for a bit, relishing the way the repetitive motion stretched and flexed nearly every muscle in his body. His mind strayed back through the most recent chain of events that led him to this fucking rowboat. Sandor’s mind balked at the memory that he, afraid of fucking fire Sandor Clegan, had ridden a gods damned dragon, but he stubornly reigned it in so he could add last night to the true horror story that was his shitty life. He had ridden a dragon. Not by himself as Jon Snow had, but still Sandor had had an overgrown fire breathing lizard between his legs. Sandor had been sure that Snow was a goner when the pretty little dragon queen had put boot to flank to get her remaining two dragons out of the ravening horde of wights clattering and clacking to extinguish all sparks of life on that gods forsaken tundra. But as the queen’s dragon was taking off, Jon ran up the back of the remaining dragon and took a fucking seat. Sandor shook his head and grinned at the memory of the wolf girl wanting to go to her brother on the Wall. He could see where she got the “we’ll just go to Wall" frame of mind.  _Sure, go to the fucking Wall, go beyond the fucking wall, ride a fucking dragon back to the land of the living. I’m a Stark, what could go wrong,_  Sandor thought resentfully, as the smile slid from his face. Sandor hadn’t mentioned to Snow that he knew his sisters better than a barely noble enemy banner man should. No need to complicate matters further when the fate of the breathing world is at stake. Sandor wished like hell he’d managed to get that crazy wolf bitch back to her dragon riding brother. He sighed heavily as another failure resettled on him like a mill stone around his neck. Once Jon got on the damned thing Sandor had expected the dragon to turn around and roast the impertinent cunt where he sat. But instead the bloody beast had just followed its brother into the sky. Shit like that happened when you were a Stark.

By now Sandor was half way to the docks and sweating like a whore in a sept. He pushed his hood back thinking about how they had not been safe in the sky. After all the bloody buggering Night's King had speared one of the dragons out of the sky. These dragons were not on their own though, but being maneuvered by Daenerys and Jon. The queen maneuvered her dragon so well in fact that if it hadn’t been for Sandor’s quick reflexes and extraordinary strength grabbing onto to that pig fucker Jorah Mormont would have gotten a short flying lesson and a long walk in the snow, like as not. If Jon had had any problems of the sort Sandor was too busy keeping all the people, living and dead, on his dragon, on his gods damned dragon.

Landing was another kettle of rotting fish, at least for Jon. The queen had done a reasonable job getting them all down, but Snow’s dragon had come in hot and bothered. Once its feet hit the ground it seemed to realize Jon was on its back and started bucking and rolling and spitting fire. Sandor tossed the undead over his shoulder and got what he considered to be the two most flammable things out of the fucking fire zone. The horror of that fiery escape had taken hold of him so firmly that the only thing that jolted him out of it was rowing into the dock. He swore rather colorfully not caring that there was probably a lady behind him in ear shot. Grabbing up his sword and pack, he turned around ready to play deaf to any noble bitching about who was going to row the boat back to the ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you all think of the blend? What about the twist?


	3. Pained Expression

It was like watching a natural phenomenon. He’d once read a Maester’s account of watching a water funnel start in one of Tyrion’s moldy tombs, but Podrick had not really understood the power of two elements coming together until he witnessed Lady Sansa and the Hound lock eyes. Her weight immediately disappeared from his arm as she all but took flight toward the hideously scarred warrior. Clegane whirled up and out of the row boat the way that Podrick had once seen wild fire jump from ship to ship the night the Blackwater burned. Only the past months of his training with Brienne and his immediate proximity to Lady Sansa allowed Podrick to stand between them.

  
He felt the consequence of his action immediately. A steely hand clamped around his throat and steelier eyes bored into his, “You don’t want to be here, boy,” the Hound growled at him lifting Pod in all his armor so that only the toes of his steel clad boots scraped the snowy ground.

  
Pod had had his hand on his sword, ready to bear steel to defend his Lady, but now both his hands instinctively scrabbled at the vice of the Hound’s grip, trying pry loose enough room to breathe. “Stay away from her,” he tried to choke out.  
“Or what? You’ll gag on me like a deep throating whore,” the Hound rasped, tightening his grip and eliciting a very similar noise to what he had just described.

  
Podrick stopped his struggling as he beheld something more horrible than the Hound squeezing the life out of him. A beautiful deep teal smear flitted out of his starry periphery as Sansa came to stand between him and the rabid mongrel. The Hound's reach was so vast that there was more than enough room for her to stand between them without touching either man. “Unhand him, please,” her tone was the same as she would use to request the peas be passed at table, but there was also a ring of steel and expected compliance that she used when passing judgement in a dispute between banner men. The grip on his throat lessened a great deal.

  
As soon as his feet were on firm ground Pod redoubled his attempts to break loose. “My lady, get behind me. Go back to the inn,” Pod was happy to buy her time to escape, though it cost him his life.

  
The Lady’s head turned ever so slightly as if to direct her sentiments over her shoulder at him, but Pod had the idea that she would not unlock her gaze from Clegane’s. “He won’t hurt me.” Then the sliver of her visage that he could see disappeared and all he was left with was a view of the wild fire tangle of her hair with one Northern braid running down the back as she fully faced the Hound once more. “Please don’t hurt, him. He is here to protect me.”

  
During Podrick’s exchange with Sansa, the Hound never took his eyes off her. His breath was ragged at first blowing misty in the snowy air, but once she spoke he seemed to calm. Pod felt the man’s derisive laugh travel up his hairy corded arm and through the brute’s fingers around his throat. “He’s not making much of a job of it.”

  
“Only you could ever protect me, from you,” she stated simply. Hound’s fingers twitched around Podrick’s throat one last time before falling away.

  
Pod was in motion instantly, but this time Lady Sansa’s arm rose to stop him. “Stand down, please Pod.” He stilled at her command, but he did not take his hand off of the hilt of his sword.

  
“Still chirping, I see.” It seemed to Pod that there was a catch in the Hounds voice, but with the way the burn scars branded his neck, that might just be his voice.  
  
“Courtesies are a lady’s shield, only now, my courtesies protect others from me.” She still sounded supremely unruffled, but there was some complicated subtext beneath her words. Pod had been a student of court long enough to know that there was something Lady Sansa wanted the Hound to understand or maybe wanted from the Hound, but Pod didn’t know what it was.

  
“Do they now?” The burnt monster responded, his tone deliberately mild, possibly to the point of sarcasm.

  
“They do. I fed my last husband to his own hounds,” Lady Sansa's words were clipped and sharp, all nuance gone.

  
The Hound’s one eyebrow shot up. Podrick could not tell if his surprise was feigned or not. “The Imp is on Dragon Stone, alive and whoring as far as I’ve heard.” His voice the wet roil of a boiling pot with the lid stuck on.

  
It was Lady Sansa turn for a misty breath of joyless laughter. It was eerily similar to the Hound’s if a bit more feminine. “You are behind the times. I was speaking of Ramsey Bolton.” Podrick could plainly hear the ragged pain in Lady Sansa’s voice as she uttered the name of her tormentor.

  
An ugly scowl tightened the Hounds features into a grotesque mask. “So are you going to King’s Landing to shop for a new husband, then?”

  
The crack of Sansa’s hand on the unburnt side of the Hounds face seemed to echo through the entire North. Her voice was low and hurt, almost a snarl, stripped of all courtesy. “You of all people should know, that for a lie. Apparently you are not the man you once were.” Abruptly she was facing Pod and he took a step back from her. He’d spent a lot of time watching Sansa. First, when he was Tyrion’s stammering squire and she a young aloof bride. Then later as a vassal of the haughty, damaged Lady of Winterfell. Brienne was her sworn shield, but even Brienne had to sleep. Podrick happily took up the task of guarding Sansa whenever it was offered. In all that time he had never seen her look so…wild. The part of her hair that was tumbling down around her shoulders had frizzed out to twice its normal volume and was studded with silvery snow flakes. There was a hectic flush to her pale skin. But it was her eyes that took him aback. They were often described as Tully blue and they were striking on a daily basis. But right now they burned like the hottest part of forge fire. “Load the bags into boat, please, Pod,” she ground out between clenched teeth, her voice sounded no less strangled than his had when the Hound had been squeezing the life out of him.

  
It occurred to Podrick that she was trying not to cry. As he was considering how to offer her comfort a hand came down on his back like a ton of bricks. “Listen to your Lady, boy, and load the fucking bags.” Pod’s hand moved toward his sword. “If you skin that fucking steel, I will sheath it in your guts and leave you to bleed to death in the snow. That boat’s not so big that I am excited about sharing it with you.” Pod resolutely continued gripping his sword, his eyes on Lady Sansa’s. She swallowed hard and lifted her chin. With that action Pod could almost swear he saw the walls come up behind her eyes. They were once again the cold blue of the moon silvered night sky. “Please load the bags, Podrick.” Now, when she spoke her voice was Lady of Winterfell smooth. Podrick nodded, not trusting his voice and moved to do as he was bid.

***

From the shadow created by the shining moon and the inn up on the hill, Petyr Bealish watched this tableau unfold. Though the only thing he heard was the slap, he understood the scene below better than any of three participants. He could see the problems associated with the appearance of Sandor Clegane, but if ever there was a force for chaos, that man was it. Petyr would have to be careful, but he was always careful. Besides he knew the man’s weaknesses and his levers. Petyr would continue his current course, but on his own terms. He slipped back into the inn, jingling the dragons in his purse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did the reunion meet your expectations?


	4. Pecking Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor readjusts his thinking about Sansa.

Sandor cursed himself for a motherfucking fool as he beheld Sansa’s hunched form facing determinedly away from him. He tried to replay the conversation in his head to see where it had gone wrong, but he’d be bloody buggered with a red hot poker if he knew what in the blazing hells had happened. One moment he was moving toward Sansa to do the Stranger alone knew what, and the next moment he was doing everything he could not to tear the arm from that kid’s socket and beat him upside the head with it. Instead, he’d taken a deep breath of snowy air and just managed to bruisingly grab the boy and casually threaten him. Sandor had to give it to the lad, it was Sansa’s voice he’d heeded and not Sandor’s threats.

Her spine straightened under his gaze, but she did not turn to face him. Sandor remembered when all he ever wanted, was to be seen by the ice princess. He thought he’d come so far from being that desperate angry man, but seeing her cuddled up to that green boy had resurrected the Hound. _No,_ he chided himself for the lie, _the Hound has been running loose since the Quiet Isle burned._ It was not until he laid eyes on Sansa Stark that he cared who got mauled. He took another deep breath through his nose like Elder Brother had taught him and let it out from his mouth. It was even colder than it had been a few moments earlier, now that the insulating clouds were moving inland and the landscape was bare to the freezing moon light. It made his injured leg and his chest ache together. Once upon a time, that ice princess had melted something in him without burning him. He wanted to be worthy of that now as he had not been in the past.

Sandor took a halting step toward her, “Sansa-“

“Don’t come any closer,” she said coldly wrapping her arms around herself as if to ward off the cold… _or was it something else._

He fought the urge to ask how she’d stop him, and won. “Little Bird I-“

At his words she turned glacially, no longer the fiery wolf from moments ago. The ice princess once again reigned in her rigid posture and cold, midnight sky eyes. “Don’t call me that, Ser.” Her voice cracked like a whip, her application of the false honorary a lash against his pride. “Help Podrick with the bags, please.”

“Well now that you’ve got the Kings Landing back in your voice, let’s be on our way,” Sandor said as he used all the core control he possessed to mock the fucking court cunts with a flourishing bow. He wanted Sansa to know that he knew how things were “done” he just refused to dance to that fucking tune.

“Well, now I have seen it all,” oozed the oiliest voice Sandor could ever recall hearing. It reminded him of pus leaking from an infected wound. Before the panderer was even done talking, Sandor channeled his surprise at being taken off guard in a fluid cut that would have taken the top half of a taller man’s skull off.

“It will be the last thing you bloody see, if you don’t tell me what hell you are doing here Littlefucker,” Sandor grated. Hating liars the way he did, Petyr Baelish was one of his least favorite people. Also the little bastard terrorized his whores. Sandor did not have much use for women, but when he did make use of them, he liked to believe that the named he yelled when he came wouldn’t be in someone else’s ear before his cum was even dry.

“Why, I am escorting, the Lady Sansa to Kings Landing.” Despite, nearly having his head hacked off- Sandor had hoped that Littlefucker was actually a little taller than he remembered-Petyr looked calm. His green eyes were flat and calculating like a lizard lion Sandor had once seen in the Neck while on his way to Winterfell with King Robert. The crannogman man who had been their guide explained to Prince Joffrey that the creatures where cold blooded and would often wait for hours for their prey to slip off a game trail and into the water, but that they were most dangerous when hungry, because then they would lie in wait and strike quickly from the shadows. Sandor would not fucking forget that Littlefucker had gotten within stabbing distance of him, without him noticing, even on soft snow, even while distracted by Sansa.

Sandor directed his gaze at the named lady though he kept his body facing Baelish in case the cunt tried anything. “I can’t believe you’d let this-“he almost said cunt, but changed his mind last minute “arsehole near you after-“

“I rescued the Lady from King’s Landing.” Petyr’s voice smeared its oily tones over Sandor’s grate.

Sandor was too busy watching Sansa to care that Littlefucker cut him off. Nor did he notice the jibe aimed at his own failure to save her. Despite his best intentions, all Sandor’s attention was focused on Sansa. Her face was pale, and though it was hard to tell in the cold moon light, she looked a bit green. Her nostrils were pinched and her lips were thinner than usual. _Could she have been afraid that I was going to kill Littlfucker?_ He swallowed his anger, as something in the middle distance behind Sansa caught his eye.

Four armed men in a mix of tattered furs and armor carried a boat down the hill toward them. “What the bloody fuck is this?”

“I’ve engaged these men and their craft to help the Lady and myself out to the Queen’s ship.” Petyr explained as if to a small, slow child who had been kicked in the head by a horse. “I did not like the look of that…shallow Southern row boat in the midst of these high Northern seas.” His contempt for non-Northern craftsmanship elicited a derisive chuckle from one of the men carrying the boat. Sandor mentally named the man Chuckles and marked him for a watery death. Chuckles had narrow rat eyes and a dead tooth off to the right side of his thin smile. Sandor wondered if Baelish paid him extra for laughing at his jokes.

“The bags are loaded. The Dragon Queen isn’t going to wait all night,” Sandor grated toward Sansa, instead of painting the snowy harbor with the men's blood.

“You can certainly ferry our bags across in the boat you came on. Take the boy as well to free up room for my men,” Petyr spoke over whatever Sansa had intended to say, seemingly agreeing with Sandor in a way that did not make the Hound want to kill him any less.

“The Queen will not want _your_ men on _her_  ship, count on that. You’ll be lucky not to end up as dragon fodder.” Sandor growled at the natty little man with his perfectly pointed beard, though he made sure his voice carried to the men holding the boat. Sandor’s words had a visible effect on all the men who began to fidget and shift their weight. Except Chuckles. His rat eyes stayed fixed on Sansa

“Nonsense, the Queen would hardly let harm befall the sister of newest ally." Petyr told Sandor, with a dismissive hand gesture.

"The Little Bird is coming with me,” growled the Hound rapidly reaching the end of his rope. “I was sent to fetch her and that is what I’m going to do, even if I have kill everyone else on this fucking dock.” Sandor turned to look at Sansa as he spoke. She looked much recovered, spots of color on her cheeks.

“No,” Sansa said simply to both men. “You will not be killing anyone here,” she continued, locking eyes with Sandor. Her confidence and assurance reminded him of Cersei, but with none of the arrogance or cruelty. Then she turned fully to face Petyr. “Choose one of these men to row you, Podrick, and myself to the ship. He can then row the inn keep’s boat back to shore.”

Sandor was going to bellow about that, but Petyr was quicker. “Lady Sansa, surely you can see the advantage of having extra men on our side.” He moved closer to Sansa as he spoke to stopping well inside of her personal space, though his voice did not lower. “This boat can easily hold the four men plus you and myself. Podrick can guard the bags.” This last bit was said over his shoulder in Sandor’s direction with an insolent look, blatantly insinuating that the larger man could not be trusted alone with the luggage.

Once again Sandor wanted to unload a string of cuss words, this time directed harshly at that slimy son of a bitch Baelish. When he was interrupted a second time, it was by Sansa. “Lord Baelish,” she said breathily, and Sandor swore that her voice was pitched a little higher, “I know the value of extra man power.” A few things happened as she spoke. First, one of her gloved hands came to rest on Petyr’s forearm. The little man’s gaze followed her hand to where it rested on his sleeve. While Petyr's attention was elsewhere, her gaze flicked up to Sandor’s. Consequently, Sandor felt like her last words were just for him. It was then he realized he was not in this battle. Who and how many were going to be on which boats headed out to the ship would be settled by Sansa and Petyr. The only thing Sandor could do at this point, would be to make the process take more or less time. He quietly opted for the latter as his leg was getting stiff. _Sure I could limit their choices by killing a bunch of these fuckers, but not without pissing her off._ And that was the last thing Sandor wanted to do. So instead he listened, a bit in awe, as his Little Bird and the Mocking Bird haggled. From time to time Sandor shifted his weight to alleviate the sourness of his wounded leg as the temperature continued to drop. If one could be proud and sad at the same time Sandor was. Sansa had grown into a great Lady who could match negotiations with the tricksiest bastard in the seven kingdoms, but in order to do it she had to become like him. _Is this what you wanted, you sad fucker?_  Sandor asked himself. _Aye, it’s what the Hound wanted,_ Sandor admitted to himself the unburned side of his face twitching up thinking that at least she was safe now.

In the end it was decided that the boy would go with him in the smaller row boat packed with bags. Three men, including Chuckles accompanied Littlefucker and Sansa in the other boat. That smarmy cunt thought that two of the men would stay on board while the third man rowed back, but Sandor would have something to say about it, once they were back on the ship. Last minute bar hirelings had no place on the Queen’s transport, and even less place if Petyr had planted them in that bar. Sandor knew mercs when he saw them and he did not like the look of the bunch climbing into the boat with Sansa, especially Chuckles. It took everything he had to do as he was told. He had honored Sansa’s choices in the past and bitterly regretted it, but he would keep doing that rather than becoming the kind of man that took choices from her. He would always steer away from things that he thought made him like Gregor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I need to dial back Sandor a little? Sometimes I during the edit I am grossed out by the free reign I give myself in regards his cursing and the stuff inside his head. Some of it will get better just because he is still having a really bad day, but does it put you all off?


	5. Row of Silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Pod come to an understanding on the way to the ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hear you loud and clear. I will not muzzle the Hound, though he might calm down on his own as he gets further away from his most recent trauma.

The kid was ready to go as soon as they got their rowing orders from Sansa. So much so that Sandor had to lay a hand on his shoulder. He scowled fiercely to give the impression, to anyone watching closely that he was continuing to give Tyrion’s former squire a hard time. The boy flinched as Sandor tightened his grasp. “I know who you used to squire for, boy. Act like some of the Imp's cleverness rubbed off on you. Give the buggers in the other boat a head start. Wait til they are a quarter of the way to the ship and then _you_ are rowing us out there.”

Podrick jerked in Sandor’s grip a few times, then looked the Hound square in the eye. “I’ve been squiring for Lady Brienne for some time now. I’ve fallen out of some my earlier training.” Sandor let go grumbling about bloody useless fucking cunts and the boy staggered back on his heels. In a low voice he continued. “You could row and I could search, since you are so much bigger and would block what I was doing better.”

A maniacal grin spasmed across Sandor’s face. The lad might be in the low five of his favorite people on the planet right now, counted with such lofty company as Cersei and the Night King, but at least he wasn’t stupid. “You row. I’ll dig. I know what I’m looking for.”

“Do you now?” Pod challenged. _Kid doesn't lack for courage, Sandor thought._ “Because I know which bag belongs to who. And I am not letting you paw through Lady Sansa’s things. I don’t care if you drown me. I will be able to call out at least once.”

Sandor grumbled some curses as he scooped his own pack, up off the dock-Podrick had not loaded it into the row boat-and climbed in. He stowed his gear carefully and grabbed up the oars. “What the fuck are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?” he barked up at Podrick.

“I just didn’t expect you to give in so easily. From every thing that Tyrion-” the boy began as he climbed into the boat.

“Don't say that evil, little bastard's name to me!" the Hound growled. "Think I’m so fucking stupid that I can see who has the best idea? Think again, boy. I may not be as clever as the Imp, but I can recognize a good idea when I hear it. Tell me when they are about a quarter of the way to the ship.” Pod nodded as he settled himself carefully amongst the bags. The boat was riding quite low in the water.

Pod craned his neck to see over Sandor’s shoulder. “For fuck’s sake boy, could you be any more obvious?!” Sandor whisper yelled. “If you can’t be, I’ll just do it by sound.” Podrick’s neck pulled his head down so quickly that Sandor was put in mind of the turtles that sun themselves in the tide pools around Casterly Rock. He chuckled to himself as he shipped the oars, one of his big paws brushed against a soft dove, gray pack trimmed in white fox fur that smelled faintly of lavender and lemons. The boy made a noise half way between a whine and a groan in the back of his throat. “Relax,” Sandor growled. “I know whose this is, I won’t get it dirty. Wedge it behind you if it makes you feel better, just don’t let it get wet.” The lad did as he suggested and Sandor went through the motions of looking busy so that whoever was facing him in the other boat would not wonder why they had not started out yet.

Some time passed as Podrick brought a plum dyed leather pack lined in black mink into his lap. A silver mocking bird clasped a midnight hued flap over the emerald silken cord that tied the pack shut. Even in Sandor’s days of lugging Cersei’s shit around he’d rarely seen a piece so fine. Sandor was just composing a semi-silent, litany to the overall pansiness of Petyr fucking Bealish, when Podrick tapped him on the leg. Sandor nodded as he began to row. Once again, the repetitive motion of rowing calmed him, and this time he had Podrick’s deft motions as the lad unpacked Littlefucker's crap to occupy his mind as well.

There was practically a fucking parade of brocades, velvets and furs emerging from the fancy pack. Sandor and Pod both snorted derisively as the boy brought up 7 pairs of men’s silk small clothes in a variety of hues from black to a screaming pink that Sandor had never seen outside a whore house. The smirk was thoroughly wiped off Sandor’s face by the eighth pair of small clothes that was trimmed in lace. There was a citrusy, floral scent to them, but below that perfume the intimate odor of Sansa Stark, wafted up his nostrils. Sandor’s King’s Guard cloak had come back smelling that way, of tears and musk, the time he’d guiltily draped it over Sansa’s heaving teats in the throne room at Kings Landing. He’d hated himself every time he pictured her jiggling tits while he fucked off, but he could not deny that wondering what the exact shade of her nipples, among other lickable bits, were, hadn’t been the foremost question on his mind since the girl had started bursting out of the childish dresses her mother had packed for her years ago in Winterfell. At the time Sandor had seen the humiliation tactic as plainly as the tops of Sansa’s breasts spilling out of her dresses on a daily basis, but he also suspected that Cersei was hoping the girl would be attacked and dishonored to get that twisted, little cunt of a son of hers out of marrying the Little Bird. That was most of the reason Sandor tried to be on hand to follow her around the castle. Even after pulling twelve hour guard duty Sandor would stand in an alcove near her door until he was falling asleep on his feet to make sure that Sansa remained unmolested. Some nights he took a couple skins of Dornish Sour to keep him company. He wished he had one now to pair with the red rage that was threatening to drown is good sense.

A growl torn from his throat, as Sandor dropped the oars to make a grab for Sansa’s panties. “No!” Podrick exclaimed, flailing backwards causing the boat to tip wildly. The kid was not fast enough and Sandor caught hold of the flimsy garment. The two men sat in the still swaying boat eyeing each other over a scrap of pale silk. One glaring and growling, the other pleading. “If you take them, he’ll know.”

“I don’t give a fuck!” Sandor grated.

“How important is it, in a battle, to have the element of surprise?” Podrick countered.

“It’s a fine thing to have, but when you’re a big fucker like me, it's not crucial,” Sandor drawled eyes narrowing dangerously at his perceived foe.

“Ok fine, I’ll put them in her pack, then,” the kid offered a compromise.

Sandor maintained his death lock on the silk and Podrick’s gaze. “Are they fucking?”

Podrick let go of the panties suddenly, blinking rapidly. “What? No! Gods at least…I don’t th-think that they are.” He looked down at Petyr’s stuff and took a deep breath his brows furrowed deeply. “L-lady Sansa was…h-hurt by her husband…b-bad. I don’t know why I’m even t-telling you this, but she t-t-told Lady Brienne some things and…I don’t th-think she…Lady S-sansa that is, is going to be t-taking a…g-getting married…I m-mean...” Podrick’s stutter trailed off into silence for a moment. Sandor continued his scrutiny of the boy. The lad was upset enough to revert to his old stutter so Sandor knew he was telling the truth. But the truth he was telling was making Sandor want to start killing indiscriminately. Only the feel of the soft silk and Sansa's intoxicating smell was keeping him from falling into a berserker rage. “Glare at me all you like, Hound, but give me the Lady’s small clothes and get to rowing or people will start to wonder what the fuck we are doing out here.” The boy’s voice echoed down the tunnel of Sandor’s rage and he shook his head, like a dog trying shake water out of his ear.

Sandor cursed himself under his breath for a long time. He was just as fucking bad as Littlefucker. He longed to secret the silk and lace away on his person…and all this time that he’d been fucking around getting his head straight with Elder Brother another gods damn husband had been hurting his Little Bird. “Fine!” he barked, venting some of his rage by throwing the wadded up small clothes at Podrick. The boy yelped but did not shrink away. That was good because Sandor's aim had been a little high and if the boy had moved at all the garment would have ended in the sea. The silky garment ended on the boy's head. Sandor felt his jaw drop open at the site of the kid's eyes blinking, one out of each leg hole, as if the small clothes were a mask of some sort. On the area that covered Podrick’s right cheek was a smear of dirt that mirrored Sandor’s scars. “Bloody fucking hells! Now _she_ is gonna know.”

Sandor made another swipe at Pod’s face. This time the boy was quick enough to dodge out of the way, as he grabbed the panties off his head and shoved them down the front of his furs. “I will wash them, and slip them back into her pack. If I can’t get them clean I will burn them. She won’t know.” As the men locked eyes again, something passed between them, an understanding that Sansa’s pain was to be kept to a minimum at all costs. Sandor nodded, picked up the oar silently and rowed in earnest toward the ship.

Podrick continued going through the pack. Once the clothes were all outside the pack he found some rolled up scrolls. “Are-“ Sandor began to demand that the boy read them out loud only to be shushed by a combination of one emphatic finger and an impatient look. At that Sandor began to rage row, until the boy waved the scroll he was reading urgently at him. With great emotional fortitude Sandor capped his anger and adjusted his momentum to give the lad the time he needed with the scrolls. He watched as Podrick finished each scroll. The boy closed his eyes for a moment, lips moving silently. Pod read through 5 scrolls that way.

“What’d they say boy?” Sandor grated as Pod tossed them back in the bottom of the pack, as he had found them. Pod shook his head. “I need to talk to Lady Sansa, first.”

“I wouldn’t hurt her,” Sandor spoke his truth and it seemed to echo though time.

“Maybe not, but it needs to be her decision.”

To that Sandor just nodded as he watched Podrick place one hand on the outside of the bag and one on the inside. He went over the whole bag pushing his hands together. After a while he made a happy little sound and then checked over Sandor’s shoulder. “Row slower,” he mouthed. Sandor obeyed. Pod fiddled around inside the bag some more and then produced a small vial of clear liquid. “Should I keep it, or put it back?” Podrick asked looking green.

“Keep it. I’ll be your witness where you found it,” Sandor assured him in a gravelly voice. Pod nodded quickly and shoved it down into his furs. Sandor imagined the poison and the panties settling over the lad’s heart. _Hope you got a strong one kid, because the shit is about to hit the wall._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise we are going to be on the ship next chapter. Who's POV would you like to see? Or would you like to hear from someone who's not on the ship, like Gendry or Arya.


	6. Rear View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost everyone makes it on board the ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With regards to this fic I am blending book cannon and show cannon with my own twist. Be advised there is a bit of a twist ahead.

More than almost anything, Sansa did not want to get in a boat with Peter Baelish and a bunch of strange men. The one thing she wanted more than she did not want to get on that boat, was information. Both Cersei and Petyr had taught her that information was key in the game of thrones and she believed that Sandor and Pod would take the opportunity she was providing them to get some. And so, as she haggled numbers with Petyr, which was just a way of each one letting the other think they got he upper hand, she pretended that getting on that boat would not leave her a shaking mess.

But once she was on the boat, surrounded by strange men in leathers reeking of alcohol and stale sweat, she could no longer pretend that she was fine. After completing negotiations she had hurried toward her own craft to claim the backward facing seat. Her one chance to refrain from dissolving into a heaving wreck was to be able to see Sandor. She’d hoped it would be his unmistakable face that was toward her, but that hope was soon dashed as she watched him pick up his own pack off the dock and climb in the absurdly tiny boat and pick up the oars. _No, his boat isn’t actually that small. It is just the bigness of the man that makes it appear so,_ Sansa mused as she watched the way that Sandor moved with the dangerous grace of large predator even when doing normal things such as walking or bending to get into a boat. Sansa almost didn't notice when Petyr settled next to her. It was the best she could hope for, but not good. Seeing Sandor again had jolted loose one terrifying memory from the Vale. _How many more true horror stories are lurking in the corners of my mind?_  Sansa decided she did not care to know at this time, but she feared the smell of mint wafting from the silvery clouds of Petyr’s breath were going to summon them back. “Why Lady Sansa, you are looking a bit green around the gills. Was it the shock of seeing one of your former tormentors? I promise you, I had no notion that beast of a man still roamed the world.”

Sansa latched on to Petyr’s voice to stop herself from jumping into the sea as the other men settled in blocking any land escape she might have. It took her a moment to make sense of what he had said. Once she did her back straightened as if steel had been poured into her spine. It took everything in Sansa not to set Petyr straight about Sandor's conduct in King’s Landing. She only just caught herself and said instead, “You remember how the sea makes my tummy feel queer, my lord” she murmured.She knew that Petyr liked to feel powerful, so she evoked a time in their lives together when he had all the power. 

“I hadn't forgotten sweetling,” Petyr said, his voice thick with sympathy as he scooted closer to her, one arm snaking around her shoulder and the other settling on her stomach. "I'd just hoped that experience had given you a stronger stomoach." Sansa’s skin was crawling as she willed herself still. _The more I let him rattle me the more he wins. Gods please let Sandor and Pod find something that makes this worth it,_ she prayed.

Soon after their boat began a sort of uneven motion as the stranger sitting directly in front of Sansa with his back to her began pulling inexpertly at the oars. Sansa feared that she might really be sick and it was quite tempting to give in to the urge to throw up on Petyr. The halting motion of the boat had already given him the opportunity to let the hand on her stomach bounce into the underside of her breasts a couple of times. This brought back memories of all the inappropriate caresses he had stolen in the Vale while insisting she call him father. She swallowed more bile and kept her eyes fixed on Sandor’s wide back. The other boat had not made its start toward the ship and Sansa took that as a good sign. She saw Pod’s head pop out once and immediately duck back down; it was almost comical.

When he'd first shown up with Brienne, Podrick had been an uncomfortable reminder of her life in King’s Landing. He had picked up on that and begged a private word. She had reluctantly granted him an audience where only Brienne was present. Pod had assured her he meant her no harm. The sincerity of his stuttered words transported Sansa to the morning after her wedding to Tyrion when Pod had been serving them breakfast. He had haltingly asked her if she preferred to break her fast with eggs spiced with herbs topped in melted cheese or sweet cakes topped with clotted cream, melted butter, and syrup. He’d had a dish in each hand and a warm smile on his face. Sansa would normally have chosen the sweet cakes, but the herbs had such a savory smell that she’d picked them instead. The memory of Pod’s open smile and the freedom to choose helped Sansa to realize that not everything in King’s Landing had been a nightmare and Podrick certainly had offered her no harm. Now, just a few months after that stammering encounter with Pod at Winterfell, Sansa could not remember what exactly he said to her, but she relaxed around him and he became one of the few men that did not make her nervous to be alone with. When she was laying her plans to attend the peace summit, Brienne had wanted to accompany her. Podrick had made an impassioned, and surprisingly stutter free plea to be allowed to go, mostly predicated on the wish to see Tyrion once more. Sansa had agreed mostly because she wanted Brienne in Winterfell with Arya, but she’d allowed Pod, and everyone else, to believe that she was motivated by sentiment. She hoped that she could use him as a buffer between herself and the other men besides John that she would be travelling with. It had worked pretty well so far. Brienne had given Pod lengthy instructions as to the gory methods he was to employ to protect the Lady Sansa's honor at the gates of Winterfell while giving Petyr a very pointed look. Lord Baelish had mostly kept his hands to himself and only suggested he and she share a room once when all the Cerwyn's inn’s rooms but one had been spoken for. She’d felt her blood run cold at the thought of having Petyr in her room even if he slept on the floor. Podrick had insisted, with the demeanor of an outraged septa, that that sleeping arrangement was totally inappropriate. Sansa had rushed to agree and express her false woe that Petyr and Pod would have to bed down by the hearth in the common room with all the other travelers who couldn’t get a room. When she emerged from her room the next morning she’d found Pod sleeping across the threshold of her door. Sansa and had traded a long look of understanding with him. Petyr was particularly cruel to the boy in his backhanded way for the rest of their journey to White Harbor.

Raised voices retrieved Sansa from her reverie and she registered that the other boat had stopped. Sansa could not make out what was being said, but she knew threatening posture on Sandor when she saw it, even at this distance. “Oh no,” Petyr said, not even bothering to hide his sarcasm, “I do hope they both survive whatever lover’s spat is going on over there.” Sansa went rigid in an effort to focus all her powers of observation on the other boat.

“They wouldn’t,” she began confidently only to be interrupted by seeing Sandor take a swing at Pod’s head. For a moment the boy was visible as the curve of Sandor’s shoulder dipped with his lunge and Sansa could see by the brightly shining moon, that Pod appeared to have donned a white cap of some sort. They were too far away and Sandor was too fast to make out much. Petyr chuckled under his breath as Sansa finished lamely, “hurt each other.”

“But will our belongings make it to the ship, do you think?” Sansa thought Petyr sounded very unconcerned for a man as vain of his clothing as she knew him to be. She herself felt a moment of panic at the thought of loosing her pack. “We may have to go naked every couple of days to have what we’re wearing now laundered. If this is all that remains to us.” He turned an intense gaze on Sansa as he said the word “naked” and her stomach flipped, her breakfast once again threatening to make an appearance.

“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Sansa said, though her voice sounded far from it. “Sandor and Pod, are very capable men.” As she finished speaking Sandor grabbed the oars back up and began rowing again. The smaller boat cut through the silvery water smoothly propelled by the even pressure of Sandor’s strength. “Sandor and Pod, is it?” Petyr said, drawing Sandor’s name out like he had never heard it before and pronouncing the d at the end of Podrick’s nickname very precisely.

Sansa felt very flustered by Petyr’s inquiry. Color came rolling up her face to her hairline and her heart rate sped. “Yes, well I knew them both in King’s Landing and, as you know, Podrick has been serving as my sworn shield. I guess I picked the nickname up from Lady Brienne.” In truth she had picked the nickname up from hearing Tyrion constantly refer to the boy as such, but if Petyr was not already aware of that connection, Sansa was not going to be the one to call his attention to it.

“Oh no doubt,” Littlefinger said smoothly. “I was unaware that the Hound was on a first name basis with anyone.” He had her there. Sandor Clegane had never asked her to use his given name. She would never have used it out loud if she had not been feeling so poorly. Only, since he came to save her the night the Blackwater burned she could no longer think of him as the Hound. Not after the kiss they’d shared. Not after she’d imagined him on her wedding night. Not after she’d mistaken Luthor Brune as him on Petyr’s wedding day when the grizzled older knight had saved her from being raped. Sandor had become her happy place, where her mind could find shelter from the things being done to her body. She had chosen him in part because she had thought him safely dead. She had told herself at the time, the real Sandor, who hated story book knights, was beyond caring what she did with the idea she had of him in her head. She knew that the real Sandor would scoff and jeer at the white knight she’d made of him to protect her sanity. She dreaded sharing a ship with him least he in some way out sniff out her little fantasy, her lie. Another wave of color flared high in her cheeks from the thought and she knew she’d been quiet for much too long.

Sansa raised her head and looked Petyr Baelish right in the eye, “He asked me to, after he crowned me Queen of Love and Beauty at my father’s tourney in King’s Landing. Remember, we met at that tourney, my lord?” Sansa said, hoping to shift the topic.

“How could I ever forget meeting you? But the crowning of the queen of love and beauty was a small, awkward affair. Remind me how it went again?” Sansa had to admit Petyr was right, it had been a strange little ceremony. She had still been standing and cheering for the valiant Ser Loras as he magnanimously declared Sandor the winner, as that worthy knight would not fight the man who had just saved his life, when the King had irritably recalled Sandor back to the royal box. Robert had then summoned her father up and bid him bestow the reward upon the winner, before resettling his bulk upon the tourney throne. Seldom had Sansa seen her father’s face so cold, but he ascended to the kings box, picked up the bag of gold and a crown of white roses wound with gray velvet ribbon and presented them wordlessly to the champion. Sandor took the gold, ignoring the crown, while saying something Sansa could not catch in his low rumbling voice. She could see how his faced darkened, however and she felt her chest squeeze tightly. That was when Sansa realized she was the only other person besides her father and Sandor who was still standing. Everyone else sat down along with the king. Sandor’s gaze locked with hers and she found that she couldn’t move. “Crown your daughter, then Lord Stark. Keep the _honor_ of this day in the family,” Sandor rumbled without taking his eyes from Sansa’s. From her periphery, Sansa could see that his words did not thaw her father’s expression, but Lord Eddard nodded. Instead of summoning Sansa to the throne so that Sandor could place the crown of roses upon her brow, her father descended to her, blocking her eye contact with Sandor. She thought her father looked a little gray as he settled the roses in her hair. He told her how lovely she looked and then he escorted her off the tourney grounds. It had been strange indeed. She’d felt like she’d gotten everything she’d ever wanted, but it was all backward and upside down.

Sansa made her face blank when she turned to Little Finger. “Sandor told my father to keep the honor in the family; to crown me queen of love and beauty. My father crowned me and then led me away.” As she spoke her gaze was drawn to the man she was speaking of. It felt so inexplicably good to be able to rest her eyes on his furiously rowing back, even if his presence was likely to cause all sorts of complications.

“Then the Hound didn’t make you a gift of his name, along with the wreath?” Petyr’s voice brought her attention back to him and she realized why she had been telling the story in the first place. _Dammit Sansa, you need to pull yourself together,_ she thought as she wracked her brain for a good story. “He stopped by my seat at the feast later that night to express his hope that the thorns were not causing me any discomfort,” she was baldly lying now. "He did it then." This had been one of her favorite fantasies when she was “remembering her glorious youth” while married to Ramsy. To be honest, she wasn’t even sure there had been a feast the night after the second day of jousting. It had been the night after first day that had so changed the way she looked at Sandor. The night that he had drunkenly confessed the origin of his scars. It hadn’t exactly been an invitation to call him by his given name, but Sansa would rather bite out her own tongue than tell Petyr what had really transpired. She’d kept her promise through the years, and never told anyone.

“Such gallant words. Hard to imagine given the man we see before us today.” Lord Baelish quipped.

“Time changes everything,” Sansa returned coldly. As she spoke darkness fell. The boat had lurched close enough to the ship for it to block out the moonlight. In that darkness Sansa’s heart started to pound in earnest. She gasped for breath as the tightening of her chest became painful. The sounds of strange men’s voices calling up to the ship and back down became overwhelming. The present events triggering memories of a night long ago when Sansa had boarded a ship she thought was safe, but instead began a journey of terror and uncertainty. Petyr had been there that night too, had been the cause, the root of all that happened after. Not knowing what else to do Sansa pressed her forehead to her knees and placed her arms around her head in an attempt to block out everything. A hand was placed on her back, and it was accompanied by mint whispers near her ear. This did not lessen, but ramped up her anxiety. There came a time when the voices became quite a bit louder and the hand disappeared.

Sansa was able to draw a deep breath. She took a few and became aware of her upward momentum. Then there was a bit of a side to side sway and jerking motions that she took for people leaving the boat in favor of the ship. Sansa heard a familiar voice call out, “Don’t touch her. Make way!” In a Northern accent.

“Father?” she said, blinking around. Her vision was blurry from tears so all the strangers standing around looked smeary and distorted.

“No Sansa,” arms enfolded her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come to fetch you. I’m hurt, I can’t lift you down. You’re going to have to get out of the boat by yourself.”

“Jon,” she said tremulously, trying to swallow her worry for her brother and her grief for her father at the same time. “You’re hurt?” she pulled back to touched his face.

“l’ll mend, but not soon if I have to lug you around,” he tried to smile encouragingly at her, his attempt reaching his eyes telling her that they were ok.

“I can feel everyone looking at me,” she whispered in his ear after hugging him tight again. Now that she knew she had jumping at shadows the shame portion of the cycle was setting in. Sansa opened her eyes and looked over Jon’s shoulder. A short blond woman who could only be the Dragon Queen stood a couple of feet behind Jon and the look on her face was far from kind. Sansa squeezed her eyes closed needing nothing but kindness in this moment. “Is Sandor really here or did I just dream that?”

Jon tensed beneath her grasp “Clegane? You know him? Jorah said something about the possibility of him deserting our cause, but I didn’t have anyone else to send. Sansa, I know he’s a rough man with a foul temper. If he offended you I am truly sorry. If he hurt you, I’ll k-“

“No.” Sansa stopped Jon’s worried tirade. “It’s fine. I just couldn’t tell what was real for a moment. I don’t think I can walk, but if he’s here…he can move me…is there somewhere that everyone’s won’t be looking at me.” There was a pause where Sansa imagined Jon thinking all kinds of things behind a stern mask that looked like father, but she just clung to him saying nothing. She felt him covered her ear with his hand. “Clegane!” Jon yelled with his Lord Commander voice.

In almost an instant she heard a gruff “Aye.” Sansa did not open her eyes. On the boat, the site of Sandor was keeping her sane. Now that that ship had sailed, Sansa was sure that if she made eye contact with the big man, he’d know how she had used him. Sansa had asked for him. If she could not have Jon then Sandor was a safe second, but she wasn’t ready to meet his knowing gaze again. “Can you get my sister out of this boat and below decks? Take her my room.”

Another, "Aye," scraped against Sansa's awareness.

Jon gave her a reassuring squeeze. “I’m going to let go, now ok. I’m here, I’m alright. Send for me when you are ready to see people.” Sansa nodded, her heart squeezing. Jon knew that she needed to be alone after an episode, but that now she was worried about him she would want to keep him in her site. It was but one set of push and pull situations that tore at Sansa’s psyche. She needed time to be alone, she feared for her siblings when she could not see them. This often had her spiraling in fear and despair.

As Jon pulled away from her, Sansa could see that she was still seated in the boat that had been cranked up the ship. There were dozens of faces staring up at her, but she could not close her eyes if Jon was not there to protect her. So Sansa looked quickly to her other side and could see a star studded sky and another boat bobbing on the sea bobbing far below her in the moon shadow of the ship. Pod was down there, no doubt waiting for her to get out of this boat so his could be winched up.

“Little Bird,” a very low and hesitant voice called her attention back toward the ship. For one of the few times in their acquaintance Sansa was eye to eye with Sandor Clegane. _If I straightened up I’d be taller,_ she thought and then did it just for the novelty. Feeling her spine straighten reminded her of her mother and how when she was little she would always think of her mother when she wanted to be strong. “Atta girl,” she heard and it sounded so much like Harwin soothing a spooked horse that she had to smile. Her gaze was still to the middle distance as she could not make herself focus on anyone. She was aware that she must look especially daft and she began to wilt back in on herself. Out of the corner of her he eye she saw that Sandor was turning his head. She was startled when he barked behind him. “Clear the fucking deck!” There was a sound of some footsteps, but Sansa still felt eyes crawling all over her so she kept her gaze to the middle distance. Then a female voice rose, like a silver bell “Clear the deck!” Many feet rushed to obey that voice. Sansa put her hand out to touch Sandor’s shoulder. If he was leaving she wanted him to take her with him, this time. And every time after.

A hand came down to cover hers. “It’s all right Little Bird. I won’t leave you,” he rasped, not ungently. She was so pathetically grateful that she wanted to cry, which made her want to cry even more. The hand squeezed hers and she was able to fight back the indignity of fresh tears. “Can I pick you up, or would you like me to steady you getting down?” Now who’s chirping? She wanted to ask him teasingly, but nothing was working but instinct so all she heard was a crazed gale of laughter that she was nearly shocked to understand, was her own. “We need to get you out of the cold,” came a worried rasp. “I’m going to put my arms around you and carry you below. Shake your head if you want me to stop.” Sansa sat very still.

After a moment strong, fur covered arms came around her. Sansa prepared herself for the uncomfortable disorienting experience that was being tossed over the Hound’s shoulder and carried. She’d lived through it before when he saved her from being gang raped by the mob during the bread riots in King’s Landing, she’d live through it now to get to a ship’s cabin, any room with a door really. She remembered how once she’d been hanging over his shoulder feeling his armor dig into her tummy, even though she was very uncomfortable, she knew she was safe. Warmth had suffused her body for a moment and then she’d begun to tremble and cry. The arm of the shoulder she was thrown over tightened ever so slightly so as not to bruise flesh that had just been tormented by strangers, but enough for Sansa to feel it. Maybe she even felt the pressure of his head against her hip for a moment before hearing a remarkably tender rasp, “You’re all right now, Little Bird.”

As Sansa resurfaced from her memory she found herself reclining rather comfortably, strong arms around her shoulders and knees the way that her father would carry her mother upstairs in the latter months of her pregnancies. Sansa buried her face in the furs feeling safe enough to let her eyes slam shut. The last thing she was aware of was rapid thunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you all think of the twist? It seemed like fun idea to me, but when it came time to write it, I was under so many restraints, that I had admittedly fashioned for myself, that I couldn't write exactly what I wanted. I know some of you all are writers so what would Sandor crowning Sansa Queen of Love and Beauty at the Hand Tourney look like to you? Write it in the comments or make it into a one shot, but tag me. I'm super interested. If you've read a good fic that already has that scene in it, I'd love to hear about it.  
> Also I hate the title for this chapter so if anyone has suggestions hit me up.


	8. Baggage Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an interlude of sorts. It is a transitional chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is probably not what you all want to read, but since SanSan is catching a ride on the love boat we have to see these characters. I promise that the push and pull from outside charries will make the story more interesting.

“She is not as I expected,” Jon could hear the irritation in the clipped tones emanating from down and to his right, as he watched a man who he’d previously thought had no fucks to give about anything anyone, scoop his trembling sister out of a boat as if she were the last dragonglass in the world.

“What did you expect?" He turned to look at her as he spoke. Her grief was hard to look directly at, but he owed it to her to bear witness, as it was his fault one of her children was dead. He had awoken from his poor landing coma a couple of hours ago, to this stunning creature, and all he could do was apologize to her and pledge himself to her cause. He believed they had shared a moment and even thought she'd crinkled her lovely nose at the nickname Dany, that is how he thought of her now. And now she was clearly irritated and he was not sure he understood why.

“I don’t know exactly. Someone a little more like you, perhaps.” She also turned toward him as she spoke and he was favored with the whole of her beautiful face, the grief was etched there. It always would be though it did not detract from her beauty. In spite of the sorrow percolating between them, or perhaps because of it, Jon allowed a snort of amusement to escape his nose. “You couldn’t handle the one that’s more like me.” And real smile twisted his lips, thinking of Arya, who he hadn’t seen in years. Since awakening from the blackness of death, his past emotions were distinctly muted, but where his family was concerned, the echos of feeling hummed as if down a long corridor.

Dany also snorted, “Is that so?” One silver eye brow was cocked in regal disbelief.

“No one knows how to handle, Arya.” Jon said, stepping out of the alcove he and Dany had been occupying so the Sandor could carry Sansa below decks to his room. Jon peered down at his sister’s now serine countenance. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her so relaxed. Jon felt his brows pull together at a grunt of what he suspected to be mirth escaped the scarred warrior. Clegane had no trouble navigating the ladder, merely cradling Sansa in one arm while using the other to balance on the ladder. Jon’s practiced eye could detect the a slight hitch in the scarred warrior’s movement, but Jon could tell that he was minimizing it as much as possible so as not to jostle Sansa probably at the cost of his own pain. “Clegane, we will speak of this and other things,” Jon assured him.

Sandor nodded in acknowledgment before disappearing down the below decks corridor. Jon thought he might have heard low grumbling about lordling cunts and their need to talk everything to death.

Movement at the winch caught Jon’s eye and he made his way to port. It was then that he registered that he was not wearing anything on his feet. When Jorah Mormont had come to his room to let him know there was a problem on deck with his sister, Jon had tossed the furs aside and headed topside. Mormont had bid him at least put on a robe. And so he had, belting Long Claw around it to keep everything closed over his death wounds, but that was it. The cold did not touch him any longer. Perhaps it had not since his awakening. _How much of life is just habit?_ He wondered.

The sailor manning the winch had reemerged to bring the second boat up. Jon wanted to see who else had come from Winterfell. Dany trailed after him. “You are fine with just sending a man you know so little about to settle your sister?”

“She asked for him. I trust her to know what’s best for herself.” Jon registered the mild surprise on Dany’s face.

“But you are still going to question, Clegane?”

“Just because I trust does not mean I am not curious.” Dany hummed in agreement.

As they approached the railing the boat was pulled high enough to see who was in it. One person Jon recognized immediately and the moment Jon set eyes on the ferret faced man, he took up all Jon’s attention. Crossing his arms, Jon said nothing, only staring, allowing a stern countenance to convey his feelings.

“Lord Snow, or is it Stark now?” Petyr Bealish looked from him to Dany as he chattered out the words on the clouds of his stuttering breath. Jon’s eyes narrowed further. “Ah still Snow, then.” Though he was soaking wet and shivering on a swaying boat, the slender man was still able to execute a courtly bow in Dany’s direction. “Your Grace, since it appears no one is going to make an introduction, may I present myself as your humble servant Petyr Bealish, Lord Protector of Vale. I beg the hospitality of your ship.”

“Granted,” was all Dany said, her violet eyes assessing Lord Baelish as he disembarked, adroitly from the boat. He turned to it’s remaining passenger, “Boy, unload our bags and have my things brought to a cabin. I do hope you have a brazier,” the last was directed at Dany accompanied by an obsequious smile.

“I am sorry,” though she did not sound sorry at all, “but we have no free cabins. There is a brazier below decks with the hammocks if you’d like to stake your birth.”

Before Baelish could reply to the queen he was forced to dodge nimbly out of the way as the young man he had just ordered to unload the bags, chucked a purple one at Bealish’s head. “Stow you own bag, my lord. I am Lady Sansa’s shield not your servant.”

Jon watched Dany’s attention shift to the young man that Jon now recognized as the large blonde knight’s squire. He felt a sympathy with anyone who would throw something at Little Finger, and so interceded before Dany could turn her ire upon him. “Podrick, where is the Lady Brienne? I can’t help but think she would have been in my sister’s boat.”

Jon approved of the way that Podrick colored up as he climbed down from the boat. “Lady Sansa chose me to come so that I could reacquaint myself with Lord Tyrion.” Out of the corner of his eye Jon could see Dany’s face soften subtly.

“You must be Podrick Payne.” She said not unkindly. "Lord Tyrion has spoken highly of you."

“I am my L- I mean Your Grace,” Podrick began to stammer. Baelish had collected his pack off the deck of the ship and was staring daggers at the boy. Podrick took a deep breath and mastered himself bowing deeply at the waist. “Forgive me for failing to introduce myself.” He straightened and turned back to Jon. “My Lord I have matters to discuss with Lady Sansa. Do you know where I might find her?” The boy’s voice trembled a bit and Jon could now see that one of his arms was wet to the shoulder.

“My sister is resting at the moment.” Jon paused waiting to see what Podrick’s reaction would be. It was something his father often did when he was a boy to give himself and his brothers a chance to let spill damning evidence.

Podrick met his eyes without guile or hesitation. “I see,” he said. “Then with your leave,” He turned toward Dany, “And yours, your grace, I will take her things to her and stow mine below decks before taking up the guard on her door.” Jon respected the boy’s single mindedness with regard to his duties. “That is not necessary at the moment. Clegane is with her.” Pod stiffened slightly. "Right now I would like to know what happened.”

Pod and Petyr locked eyes in a distinctly unfriendly way. “Lord Baelish found himself in the Sea and I helped him back into the boat.”

Jon feigned mild surprise to cover quite a bit of amusement. That was another emotion he had not felt much of since his death, but he could not deny that the sight of Petyr Baelish shivering in the moon light made him want to smile. “Lord Bealish, how did you find yourself in the sea?”

“That, hell hound, Sandor Clegane threw me in.” The little man answered through teeth he was gritting together to stave off cold chatter.

“Why would he do that?”

“Who knows why dogs do anything?”

Jon turned to Podrick, “You are awfully quiet. Do you know why this happened?” Podrick looked uncomfortable.

“The Hound did not like the way that Lord Bealish was touching Lady Sansa. So he plucked Lord Bealish out of his boat and threw him against the side of the ship. Lord Baelish bounced off and landed in the water.”

Jon took a threatening step toward Baelish. “And how was he touching Lady Sansa?” He poured all the menace he possessed into the question.

“I get the feeling that the Hound would not have liked any way that Lord Baelish tou-“

“My Lord,” Petyr cut Podrick off, “The lady was overcome by one of her fits. I was merely trying to console her when the Hound set upon me.”

Jon grabbed up a fist full of Bealish’s sodden tunic and brought the smaller man in close. “Did I not make myself clear in the crypts of Winterfell? Give me one good reason I should not toss you back into the Sea.” Baelish was about to say something, but this time Podrick cut him off.

“Lady Sansa brought him, my Lord. Might we wait until she is better to find out why?” Jon turned his glare on the boy, “whose side are you on?”

“Th-the side of not doing th-things that cannot be undone, my lord? What I-I-I mean to say is we can always toss him overboard later, but what remains of him will not be useful if we were to have to come back for him.”

“Wise council,” came a soft voice. In his sudden anger, Jon had forgotten that Dany was standing there. “You learned from your former master well. Will you stay your hand?”

Jon knew that the last bit was directed toward him. He did not want to let got of Little Finger unless he was dangling over the side of the ship, but he could see this as a test of his loyalty. “If it is Your Grace’s command.” He said shoving Petyr away from him toward the hatch. “Leave my sight. And if I catch you in my sister’s presence without me, I will let Clegane have his way with you.”

Bealish scuttled off clutching his pack.

There was still one thing Jon didn’t understand. He turned to Podrick who was gathering up the remaining packs from the boat, “How did Clegane get aboard the ship?”

“After he pulled Lord Baelish out of the boat it didn’t make Sansa better. He roared at one of the deck hands to throw down a ladder. The sailor told him to-“ Pod reddened and glanced at Dany. “He uh suggested that Clegane attempt the impossible. The Hound bellowed for a rope. The man threw it and Clegane climbed up the side of the ship. He beat the boat to the top.” Jon nodded. He’d seen Sandor’s feats of strength beyond the wall. Once Jon had come to the understanding that anyone breathing was on the same side his world view had shifted. He was ready to accept anyone who could stem the tide of the dead. Even Little Finger.

Jon turned to Pod, “Thank you for not letting me kill him Podrick. We may have a use for him, yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys, I know this not really the chapter you want, but how did you like it?


	9. Dream Come True?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa takes a much needed nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's my first public smut. Con crit is welcome. There is a tense shift, but there is a point to it. See foot note.

Sansa was floating in a perfect soft place between sleep and wakefulness. Her eyes were closed so she couldn’t see anything. Whatever was going on outside her sphere of awareness was quiet so she couldn’t hear anything. Everything that she could feel was softness. She needed this to rebuild her walls. She basked in this stasis for an unknown amount of time, until she felt herself again.

Before leaving this safe space though, she desired the luxury of letting her mind wander. Sansa didn’t have a whole lot of choices in her waking life, but here in this in between place she had all the power. If she wanted to walk up to Sandor Clegane and wrap her arms around his neck to pull him down for a kiss, she could do that here. No one could judge her here. Sandor would not fight her, or say mean things to her. He would kiss and touch her, but not hurt her. He would kill anyone else who tried.

This was all familiar territory as was the path her fingers worked along her skin. Left hand: breasts, nipples, ignoring the ripple of raised skin. Circle, circle, pinch, slight twist, circle, switch, repeat… Meanwhile her right hand, skimmed down over her tummy, not feeling any ridges, navel, back and forth between hip bones, skating low enough that her fingers tickled the fiery triangle at the meeting of her thighs. She sighed. Her fingers delved through the curls into the folds to circle the nub, faster and faster until-

He’s alive! The thought interrupted her mounting climax and Sansa doesn’t mind. _It’s not hard to start over._ But this time her image of Sandor refused to behave. He nipped at her neck and scraped his teeth over her nipples. She gasped. His huge hands palmed her backside and squeezed, fingers caressing the curves that lead to her opening. _No, not inside_ she panicked. _There is pain inside._ Still, she feels soreness when she releases. _There is something wrong inside!_

As soon as she begins to struggle, Sandor lets go and withdraws. _Wait,_ she calls. _Don’t go! I’m not ready yet, but I want to be._ Still he retreats.

Sansa waits for darkness. She wants a time where it is only she and Sandor in the bed, but she knows that where there is light enough light to read, Ramsy will be there. She is nauseous until the sun goes down. Almost as if the darkness summons him, Sandor appears when Sansa feels the night cloak her in safety. She is already naked beneath the furs. She is confident and powerful. She turns back the fur invitingly revealing a curving line of the side of her breast, hip and thigh. A smile spreads up Sandor’s face that meets the hunger in his eyes and it looks to Sansa like the best thing she has ever seen. In the blink of an eye he is naked and moving toward her. Then he is with her beneath the furs. His lips meet hers with hot wet fervor that makes other hot wet places clinch with wanton ache. She opens for him inviting the thrust of his tongue and caressing it with her own. Meanwhile his hands are everywhere on her body. One of his legs slides between hers and she grinds herself against it sucking harder on his tongue as her own pleasure increases. He groans into her mouth and cups her breasts in his huge hands, thumbing her nipples until her hips are swiveling wildly against him. Just as she is about to lose herself in pleasure, Sandor prepositions himself to kneel between her legs to cover her body with his own. He thrusts into her with one smooth movement. Sansa moans as she takes all of him. He pulls back and thrusts again, and again Sansa rises her hips to meet him, again and again, the rhythm mounting, until everything in Sansa feels pulled taught to the point of breaking. She balances on that precipice waiting for his next thrust for an agonizing eternity. When he comes into her she cries his name as a wave of pleasure engulfs all her senses.

***

After settling Sansa in her brother’s bed, Sandor took up a guard stance outside the door. It didn’t take long for the pose to put a strain on his bad leg. He sneered at his own weakness, brooding on his past ability to spend hours in this position in plate armor with enough comfort to fall into a sort of doze. He caught the negativity of his thoughts and took a deep breath to reset them. He heard Elder Brother in his head urging him to find something to be grateful for.

It wasn’t hard because Sansa Stark was sleeping soundly, although a bit restlessly from the sound of things, behind the door he was guarding. This had been the realistic goal he had set for himself once he came out of his blind rage after the Quiet Isle burned. He had gone North with the Brotherhood, thinking it would bring him closer to Sansa. He’d agreed to go beyond the Wall with her brother to prove his worth to the man. He’d left the ship to find her. He allowed himself a grunt of laughter at the shortness of that last quest.

Now he was where he aimed to be. Time to find a new goal…or possibly a leash? If she held it, would that be enough for him? Once it certainly would have been. He didn’t know how much he’d changed. Sandor Clegane was not a man given to much introspection. He was far from the ignorant brute he endeavored to personify, but his strong suits ran to keen observation, cunning and a willingness to follow is own instincts that sometimes bordered on madness.

In the past he would have just played it by ear. Now he felt a need to have some sort of plan. He decided that he needed to talk to Sansa. This was entirely new territory for him. He had never consulted another individual before making a choice. He’d followed orders, but that was different.

He wondered how long she would sleep. His personal clock told him it was about mid-morning for him, since he’d woken up from a drunken stupor about 3 hours ago. Granted it had been a hell of a morning, but he still felt sharp and alert, and hungry. When the boy had come with Sansa’s things not long ago, Sandor sent him to the galley for some tack and any meat the kid could find. Podrick had not wanted to leave Sansa’s bag with Sandor, but the larger man would not let him into the room so he’d done it grudgingly, also taking Sandor’s pack back down to sit beside the iron box he was actually supposed to be guarding. Sandor hoped that Jorah Mormont grew as tired of the musty dead smell as Sandor had. Sandor was not sure where Sansa was on her personal clock. Had she been travelling all day to catch the boat? Had the innkeeper woken them in the middle of the night after just a nap? Would any of that even matter after the ordeal she’d just suffered? He’d ask the kid about the time table, if he ever came back with the food.

As if summoned by Sandor’s thought, Podrick came around the corner, a chunk of bread stuffed with dried meat and hard cheese in each hand. He handed one to Sandor who nodded his thanks, and bit into the other one with gusto.

“I can take it from here,” the boy said once he had chewed his first bite.

“When was the last time you slept, kid?”

Podrick flushed, “My name is Podrick Payne. You may call me Payne. I’ve been awake since sun down, but I’m used to much longer hours. It is my duty to guard Lady Sansa, I can take it from here.”

The old Sandor would have chewed the kid up one side and down the other, to establish his dominance, but now Sandor no longer found that necessary. He was still pissed at the kid for coming between him and Sansa on the dock, but it had been his duty then too.

Sandor took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Look Payne, neither one of us can guard her round the clock. I have been awake the shortest amount of time and she is just sleeping. Go catch some shut eye and relieve me at two bells past dawn.”

Podrick looked at Sansa’s bag very closely where it sat just to the right of the door, in exactly the same position he’d set it down. “All right Clegane. I’ll see you at two bells past dawn.” The kid had been gone for about an hour when Sandor heard his name cried out from the other side of the door. He whirled, drew his sword and kicked in the door all in one smooth motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tense shift is to indicate the shift between a fantasy that Sansa is controlling and dream which...well think whatever you want about who controls dreams, especially in a Song of Ice and Fire. Also you will see a difference between dream smut and "real" later on. Like I said earlier, con-crit is appreciated. Let me know what you all think.  
> P.S. What do you think he's gonna find in there? What do you hope he's gonna do about it?


	10. More or Less

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Partial resolution of the cliff hanger.

A loud bang brought Sansa upright in a very dim place. She could feel a feather bed beneath her and someone had taken off her outer furs and her dress. Cool air caressed her bare her arms and chest. Reflexively she covered herself, curling her arms against her chest and huddling in the covers up to her chin.

Groggily she peered around her eyes unfocused but still looking for the source of the noise. Though the dream had not been new, it had been very intense and she was more than a little cross that it had shifted so abruptly when she would have liked to have basked languidly in the afterglow.

“Sansa,” a voice like a rusty saw through fire hardened wood rasped her name, “what is it? Are you alright?” Though the light from the hall was dim, Sansa could not mistake the broad form of Sandor Clegane silhouetted in the light of the corridor, for anyone else.

She gasped his name and the act brought back the entirety of the dream. _No wonder I feel so relaxed and wonderful._ She smiled to herself uncaring that she was unsure she was awake since the subject of her dream seemed to have climbed out in all his battle hardened glory. His sword was out and his head moved as if his eyes were scanning the room.

The last thing she wanted was to be seen in any state of undress. “What are you doing in here?” her voice was hoarse from sleep.

“You called out for me.”

“I guess I was dreaming,” Sansa said, almost to herself. The dream was crowding her thoughts, clouding her judgement. He was closer now, almost standing over her, the room still lit only by light coming from outside, but still silhouetted as he was, she could see his chest expand and she heard him suck a deep breath through his nose.

“Were ya now?” His voice sounded strange, a tone she’d almost never heard from him. Also he was backing up toward the door. He bent and she heard something dropping to the ground. Then came the sound of him sheathing his sword.

“Sandor, how did I get out of my clothes?” she countered. The door closed leaving them in utter darkness.

“I undressed you, Little Bird. I wanted you to get as much from the sleep as you could.” The part of her mind still held by the dream twisted into a nightmare. Sansa felt like something very precious to her shattered and the pieces were shredding her heart. A gasping sob escaped her throat. _It’s all ruined now,_ she thought. _He saw._ _Now I’ll never get my night._

He was by her side in an instant, the bed dipping with his weight. “Sansa, what’s wrong?” His rasping voice was all earnest concern.

“You ruined my night,” she sobbed.

“I’ve told you before, I’m no knight.” She could hear a dangerous growl edging his voice in the darkness.

“No, now there will never be a night” Sansa agreed and crumpled into bitter weeping. Her slump brought her into contact with Sandor’s solid form. A firm arm came out of the darkness to steady her.

“If that is still all that matters to you, I’m sure you’ll find one somewhere.” The bitterness in his voice matched her own, but he kept her from falling out of the bed. There was a long ugly moment in the darkness where fear, insecurity, and misaligned expectations crouched ready to spring and rend.

“But you’ve already seen. What is seen can never be unseen, what is known can never be unknown.” Sansa wailed in despair.

She felt Sandor stiffen against her, as if in indignation. “Sansa, I unlaced the dress and then shut my eyes to pull it off you. What do you take me for? Don’t you think I know you’ve had a life full of cocksuckers eyefucking you against your will.” Though his words were course, it seemed to Sansa as if they were tinged with relief.

“You didn’t look, you didn’t see?” Her spirits soared. She reached up and cupped his face in her hands relishing in the simultaneous feel of the stubble and scars. She needed no light to know Sandor. The covers fell unheeded. The night cloaked her.

“No. Though the gods know I’ve seen enough of you without your permission.” She could not miss hearing the honest guilt. She could feel the burned side of his face spasm into a grimace. Sansa flinched at the memory his words dredged up, but did not let go cherishing being to feel what his remorse must look like.

Relishing the act of forgiveness, she told him, “You were the one to cover me then." She paused her eyes boring into the darkness, wishing that she had light for this part, but hoping that she didn't need it. The she went on, "Besides, that was before.”

“Before what Little Bird?” Sansa shook her head in the darkness.

“There can still be a night.”

“What knight, Sansa? Who are you talking about? What are you talking about?” For the first time Sandor tried to draw away from her touch, confusion riming his words.

“This night.” Sansa drew her face to her hands to press her lips against his.

###

Sandor froze in absolute shock. Of all the things that had happened to him today this was the capper. No one had ever kissed him on mouth. The fucking thing was twisted and burned so that it didn’t even shut right, plus whores just don’t do that unless you pay them extra. And here he was in a bed with Sansa Stark, her plump silky lips pressed against his feeling better than the best fucking thing he’d ever imagined. Every question he had about her irrational peeping was driven straight out of his head by the rushing torrent of blood pumping straight to his dick. Instinctively, his arms wrapped more tightly around her, one hand skimming up her back and neck to fist in her hair, the other twisting around her waist and pulling her into his lap, so that she straddled him. She gasped when her cunt came into contact with his cock separated only by a couple layers of cloth, and he plunged his tongue into her mouth. He saw stars and almost came in his pants when she sucked on it. His hand went from her waist to her ass to press her more firmly against his raging hard on. Sansa writhed in his arms like a dream come true, and a very horrifying realization dawned on Sandor. He disengaged from the kiss so abruptly his teeth scraped her lips, and a ragged little whimper of loss tore from Sansa’s mouth that made his cock pulse.

“Sansa,” he panted, gently tugging her hair to bring her into focus. She moaned and arched into him grinding herself into his rigid cockstand. Sandor’s eyes rolled back in his head and only by sheer force of will and the grace of not actually being able to see Sansa fucking Stark writhing in his arms was he able to keep his weeping cock from exploding. He knew he was going to have balls as blue as Narrow fucking Sea, but he was not sure she was entirely awake and he needed her to be for this to progress. “Sansa, tell me, do you know where you are, what you’re doing?”

“Umhmm, I’m having my night,” Her voice was deep and throaty like he’d never heard it before, but her words were like a bucket of ice water.

“Sansa, what does that mean?”

“I have been pretending it was you all along, and now it finally is,” she bucked her hips into him again and this time they both made noise. Hers a gasp and his a growl.

Sansa's words were beginning to make a horrifying sort of sense to him. His hand dropped from her silken locks as both his meaty paws came to rest on her hips shoving her not ungently to the furthest reaches of his lap. Her whimper at the loss of body contact stabbed at his chest. “What the fuck does that mean?” Sandor tried to keep the anger and pain out of his voice.

Sansa wilted. “I knew you would be mad. I know you hate stories and lies. I just wanted one good thing for myself.” Sandor felt his anger mounting, born of frustration at not being able to understand, terror that he did understand all to fucking well, longing, unquenched desire, but her last statement resonated with the broken part of himself. Hadn’t that same sentiment driven him to her room the night the Blackwater burned and he himself had broken? He knew what is it to want one fine thing for yourself and be denied.

He gathered her back into his arms and held her tightly to his chest wishing he could press her broken pieces back together, and knowing from his own fucked up meandering life that that was something she had to do for herself. But when he was wandering and mean, hurting and broken, she had been kind to him. He could do the same for her. Maybe even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So do you guys feel better or worse?


	11. Queen's Ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has an early morning visitor, but not the one we want.

Once again Sansa was awakened by a noise. This was a smaller sound of the door to her room opening and shutting. For a moment, fear of the unknown gripped her, but she remembered where she was and who was outside her door and she relaxed burrowing deeper under the covers and feigning sleep.

Sansa thought at first it might be John returning to his room, perhaps to change, but the rustle of the person's clothing was wrong for a man. Her eyes popped open, though she remained prone beneath the furs. "Good morning," said a cold voice, whose tone plainly wished her the opposite.

Sansa sat up slowly, bringing the covers up with her. "Your Grace," she said thickly, head swiveling to take in the unfamiliar surroundings. The cabin was richly appointed, with a chest of drawers and a brazier along with other random well crafted pieces of furniture. Carved molding along the walls flanked wall hangings in vibrant hues. All this paled in comparison to The Dragon Queen who sat regally on one of two plushly upholstered chairs that faced the bed. Her white fur dress contrasted with the dark woods and fabrics around the room as if all the light gathered with her as its source. The garment hugged the Daenerys' body tightly leaving her arms and shoulders bare. A palpable pang of jealousy zinged through Sansa. _Probably not a coincidence,_ Sansa thought, and, _who wears white to a war?_ were just a couple of the things running through her mind.

"I did not have a chance to welcome you aboard my ship, last night." More cold words and Sansa understood what this meeting was really about. _All right, let the games begin._

"No Your Grace," she said pulling on her Lady of Winterfell persona. "I apologize for my indisposition." _If Daenerys thinks she'll have the upper hand by waking me early after a harrowing night, she is wrong. I am well rested, safe, and I can handle this,_ Sansa told herself. She was in her element now. 

"No apologies are necessary," for a moment Sansa thought perhaps the two of them could work together,"it was quite the diversion," but then she recalled that nearly all women were in competition with each other for the resource known as men.

Sansa threatened the Queen's hold over several of the men in her service and the lovely, little blonde was here to put her in her place. Sansa knew she walked a perilous line at the moment, but she also knew her worth as the Lady of Winterfell. "I am glad that I could enliven Your Grace's evening with my pain," she said as if she had just done Daenerys a huge, but secret favor.

A derisive snort left the Queen's pert little nose. "Your ‘pain' certainly did draw a lot of protectors. Did you know that you have no less than two guards outside your door?"

"I certainly didn't station them there. Perhaps you should be speaking to my brother if the level of my protection offends you." Daenerys cocked her head minutely. _So it makes her more uneasy that Sandor and Pod (who else could it be) are out there on their own instead of by order. She wants everyone to be loyal only to her and her alone._ Sansa had her first key to knowing how to move the woman in front of her.

"Speaking of your brother, did you know that he was in a fight for his life less than two days ago? He was unseated from a dragon and lay unconscious for nearly a day." Sansa felt the blood drain from her face. She dimly recalled Jon saying he couldn't help her out of the boat because he was hurt, but at the time there had been no room in her terror-stricken mind for questions. Now, she had many. Some of them were about Jon and his health and safety, a few surrounded Sandor and what his role in that battle might have been. None of which she would ask this woman.

"He did mention, last night, that he had been wounded, but not the extent nor the nature of his injuries. Now that I am feeling better, I will see him once I have a chance to dress. I do not mind taking over his care."

"His care! Last night you were the helpless damsel, and now when, it's just us, you are the selfless sister? It's a little late to take up that role, after your performance last night." Though her tone was still cold Sansa could see anger burning behind Daenerys' eyes.

Seeing that sparked something in Sansa as well and she allowed some of the emotion to flicker across her face and into her voice. "Concerned sister is not a role that I play, Your Grace. Nor was my indisposition last night."

"No? It certainly garnered you the attention of the entire ship." The Queen's voice was acrid with disbelief.

"Which if you knew me, you would know that is the last thing that I would want."

This time Daenerys' laugh was more pronounced. "I know you. I have met many women like you who feel they need to make an entrance, to capture the hearts and minds of the men around them in hopes of controlling a new situation."

"And whose attention did you miss the most once I had captured it?" Sansa said arching a fiery brow. "I'm guessing you don't even know Sandor's name, so it must be my brother's regard that you resent me stealing for a few moments. I learned a lot from Cersei Lannister, but I promise you, I did not pick up that proclivity." Sansa was rewarded with a momentary narrowing of violet eyes. _Another secret unlocked,_ Sansa thought, though her triumph here was dampened. Petyr had warned her this might be a factor which means he has plans about how to handle it.

"You sit snugly in a bed on my ship and dare tout what you have learned from Cersei Lannister. Should I be questioning your loyalties?" The Queen's voice was sharp, now and Sansa sensed this is what Daenerys truly feared.

"I spent a long time, an unwilling guest of the Lannisters, as I am sure your Hand has told you," Sansa explained patiently. "If I had not been learning from them, I would have been wasting my time. And speaking of wasting time, I think this interview has reached the end of its usefulness."

"I will be the judge of that. And just so I make sure this interview was worth your time, I will give you a truth. I will not tolerate any further tantrums from you. If you cannot control yourself, you will not be welcome in my entourage."

"It is not a matter of control." Sansa did her best to sound cool and collected. "When something reminds me of my past I become overwhelmed by it." She shoved down the flicker of panic that tried to ignite the fuse of her anxiety. If the Queen put her off the ship, she and Sandor would make their way to Kings Landing another way, no doubt with Petyr and Pod in tow. Jon might also be a part of that company, though all things considered, perhaps not.

"My past is filled with things you cannot imagine, and still, I remain able to control my reactions," Daenerys asserted.

"I am happy for you, your grace. I am not so fortunate," Sansa explained.

"What is so bad that it melts the famous Stark composure to a puddle of whimpering tears?" the other woman asked disdainfully.

"My second marriage did not go well," Sansa confided unwilling to provide details for Daenerys' perusal.

"Neither did mine," the Queen asserted.

Sansa could no longer take this woman's ignorant scorn. She had learned as much as she could from this encounter, and Sansa needed it to be over before she became overwrought again. So she stood up. The furs fell away from her pale skin in a rumple at Sansa's feet. She stood before the Dragon Queen in only her shift. Sansa had to admit there was a certain amount of satisfaction in seeing the other woman's jaw drop, but it did not override her shame.

###

"My Lord Snow," Sandor heard Podrick's over loud greeting from around the corner. Sandor straightened smoothly from where he had been leaning with his ear to the space between the door and the wall turned around to face the dimly lit corridor.

"Pod," the greeting was returned as Jon rounded the corner, shadowed by the boy. He'd found clothes somewhere, though Sandor knew Jon had not been back inside his own rooms during the night. Jon was in a hurry and the wind of his passage made edges of his cloak flare out. The corners were wavy edged. Something about that tugged at the corners of Sandor's tired mind, but he pushed the distraction away. It was possible that Snow was coming to make good on his threat of talking and Sandor was no good at that shit on his best day. Knowing that about himself, he'd spent the rest of the night, after holding Sansa until she was limp from sleep again, standing outside this door and making plans for what to say to Jon about his miserable failure to protect his sister. During that time he made contingency plans in case he was kicked off the ship. Sandor felt more prepared for this encounter than he usually was.

"Clegane," Jon said nodding a greeting. Snow looked run down as well. They stood there for a moment. Jon cleared his throat and said, "This is my room."

"Would you like me to announce you, my lord?" This was not the turn Sandor expected the conversation to take. Maybe Snow was not quite the lordling cunt Sandor has assumed he was.

"Clegane," Jon said a little wearily, but with the same easiness they'd all developed with each other beyond the wall, "this is a ship, not a castle."

"The Queen is in there giving your sister a hard time about her…boarding." _Subtext: You need to get your bitch on a leash._

"How do you know that?" _Subtext: How the fuck do I do that._

"I have ears." Subtext: _Grow a pair._

"And one of them was pressed to the door?" _Subtext: Maybe we can just let them settle it themselves._ Jon turned to give Pod a sour look for playing lookout.

"Mayhaps." _Subtext: Not bloody likely_  

"Announce me, then." _Subtext: Don't say I didn't warn you._

"As what?" _Subtext: Who are you to-fucking-day John Snow?_

Jon took a deep breath and let it out. "Lord of Winterfell."

Sandor gave the younger man a long look, "We _do_ need to talk," he said gruffly, before banging his fist on the door and then opening it.

Pulled in by the undercurrents of the conversation and the rigors of the past night Sandor didn't think about what might be on the other side of that door. He certainly hadn't expected to find Sansa standing in front of the Queen in her shift. Her back was to him and her glorious hair tangled in a molten mane that rioted to the small of her back, covering shoulders and arms from his vantage point like a cape. Most of her legs were blocked from his view by the bed, but her flaring hips and full round ass were straining against the near translucent fabric of her shift. Sandor dragged his eyes off Sansa and to the ground, turning so that his bulk blocked the door. "Lord Snow to see you, my lady."

"A moment please." He could tell by the sound of her voice that she had turned, at least her head as she spoke, though he did not look up to see, as he shut the door firmly. He was still confused about a lot of things, but it was clear that Sansa did not want him putting his filthy fucking eyes on her. He could understand why. The vision of that ass was branded into his brain now, and he would guilt wank about it soon enough.

"She's not ready for your company," Sandor reported to Jon in the hallway.

"Did you just walk in on my sister dressing as if it was normal?" Jon asked incredulously. _Subtext: What the fuck is going on between you and my sister?_

"Old habit." _Subtext: You don't want to know._

"What the hells is that supposed to mean?" _Subtext: I am not dropping this._

"It means that Joffery loved to have me fling her door open at all hours of the morning or night to catch whatever glimpses of her pretty pale hide that he could. When that grew dull, he had her beaten and stripped in open court. Usually when your too-fucking-good-to-save-his-own-gods-damned-sister won a battle, but sometimes just for shits and giggles. I tried to help her where I could. I didn't do a very good job of it. Don't know where my mind was just then. I assumed if she had company she'd have clothes on."

"The Queen was in there?" _Subtext: You're right now is not the time._

"She is." _Subtext: Fucking right I was right._

"And Sansa trusts you because you tried to help her in King's Landing?" _Subtext: You had all the opportunities to hurt her in King's Landing, but you didn't._

"I can't speak about trust, but I think that's why she let me see to her last night."

"Is there anything else I should know?"

Just then the door opened, and Sansa stood gowned and cloaked though her hair was still wild. Her color was high, and the smell of her made Sandor's mouth water. Their eyes met, and she smiled up at him, her Tully blue eyes brightening up his world like the morning sun. It felt a little like being sucker punched in the gut, but dizzying like the aftermath of a head blow. And just like after a head blow Sandor couldn't make sense out of what happened last night or this morning and her current mood.

"Come in," her voice was also bright. Very different from the way she normally spoke. Sandor hadn't heard those tones since the day he'd introduced her to Illyn Payne. He could still hear her talking to her wolf as if it were her best friend in the world. Jon had to clear his throat because for a second Sandor forgot how to move so hampered was he by the memory of a happy Sansa.

He stepped aside for Jon who bypassed him, but turned as Sandor began to take up a guard position again. "Clegane, you said you had some things to discuss with me. Now's as good a time as any." Sandor had many doubts about that, but he followed the younger man into the cabin anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like the Subtext format? Should I leave it like that or take it out and then post it separately so you that future readers have a chance to experience the actual conversation?


	12. Pressing Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are revealed. They were not really secrets from us, the reader...or maybe they were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a calibration chapter.

It took all the poise Sansa had not to jump or turn at the knock and sound of the door opening. The shock of it, coupled with Sandor’s grating voice nearly transported her mind back to Kings Landing. Eye contact with the Dragon Queen anchored her to the reality of a ship where she was safe and allowed her to hear his words and know them for truth. It was her brother who sought entry to his own rooms, not some skeevy boy king, there to leer and jeer at her. _I might be put off at any moment, but until then this ship is safe,_ Sansa said to herself, her pleading gaze locked on Daenerys'. The Queen gave an ever so slight nod.

“A moment, please,” Sansa said, breaking that very significant violet eye contact and carefully turning only her head to look at Sandor over her shoulder. His bulk blocked the door, his gaze boring into the floor. She watched as he backed up, and the door closed without him ever looking up.

Sansa visibly shivered out of her stillness, turning back to the Queen. “With your Grace's permission, I will dress.”

“Of course,” The queen’s voice sounded different now. Warmer.

Sansa moved around the room her eyes scanning for her pack or the dress she was wearing last night. She found the dress first where it had been hung over the carved footboard. Daenerys covered her mouth to stifle what Sansa was sure was a giggle. “I guess Sandor Clegane leaves a lot to be desired as a lady’s maid,” the highly amused blonde quipped indicating the laces that had been sliced open.

Sansa found that she could not wholly stifle her own laugh, “I think he was trying not wake me,” she said between mirth and dismay.

“Is that your pack on the floor by the door?” Daenerys asked helpfully.

“It is your Grace,” Sansa said already in motion. She bent, unclasping the top and pulled out the first dress that she found, a serviceable gray wool garment embroidered with white canines. Beneath that was a black cloak that had come along way with her. Reflexively she rubbed the cloak against her cheek deriving untold comfort in the act before jamming it back inside her pack. Sansa stood and pulled the dress over her tangled mane. Dany moved to stand behind her as if the Queen might do up her laces. “Thank you, your Grace, but there is no need,” Sansa said. “I knew that I would be mainly in the company of men without the benefit of a maid. I constructed these dresses with that in mind,” Sansa demonstrated by reaching her long willowy arms behind her to grasp the ends of the laces and pulled tight the bodice of the gown. She then tied the ends neatly. “There are ways around being dependent if you are determined enough,” Sansa said.

“Yes, I can see that,” the Queen mused. Then her voice became light and teasing. “Are you going to wear the cloak you so lovingly…snuggled?”

Sansa could not control the flush that raced up her face. She could think of nothing else to say so she answered, “Yes, your grace.”

Fumbling in the furs she had worn yesterday, Sansa recovered the dire wolf clasp that had been her mother’s. Catelyn had kept all her most precious jewelry in a secret stone hidey hole in the Lord’s chambers in Winterfell. There it had been kept secret and safe for her daughters. Upon finding the clasp, she used it to secure the long woolen cloak in fancy folds that created a hood that Sansa did not bother to draw over her head as she was below decks. But she did not plan to remain so all day so the cloak was a good idea, and not just a security blanket.

When Sansa opened the door to find her brother and Sandor in mid-conversation, she could not help but smile. The two dark-haired warriors both wore intense expressions, both wore armor and arms, and both turned to look at her almost simultaneously. Sansa sought Sandor’s steely gaze with her own and got trapped like a fly in honey. “Come in,” she said without really thinking, just wanting.

There was a long pause where Sansa just enjoyed basking in the pure silver of his eyes absent the shadow of the rage of old. John broke the moment with his phlegm management, and when Sandor turned back to take up his guard, Sansa threw daggers at Jon with her eyes. Jon's eyes rounded in mock (maybe) shock. Sansa jerked her head in Sandor’s direction. Jon invited Sandor to stay for the conversation. The huge warrior’s resigned sigh seemed to blow through Sansa like a harbinger wind.

Jon moved to take the chair near Daenerys which left Sansa to seat herself atop the furs that were piled somewhat haphazardly on the bed. She did so with as much grace as could muster alighting near the ornately carved headboard. She gestured to the foot of the bed inviting Sandor to sit as well. “It’s my place to stand,” he growled, though Sansa perceived a darkening of his weathered face.

“Would you like to start Clegane?” Jon invited.

“Aye. What the fuck is Littlefucker doing on board this ship?” Sandor had fixed his gaze half way between Sansa and Jon, so he wasn’t really looking at either one of them, but distinctly disapproving of both. Sansa felt a slight pang in her chest. _No matter what I do, he is always going to see me as a stupid little bird._

Jon turned to look at Sansa who shot her eyes to the Queen. Jon sighed heavily, “I've bent the knee. She is our liege. We have nothing to hide from her.” Sansa despaired that Jon actually thought that one had nothing to hide from thier own liege.

Sansa’s long practice at schooling her facial features served her well as the rage and disappointment that welled in her chest only showed as a flush across her face. “I see,” said the Lady of Winterfell. “Well, in that case, I can confide that Lord Baelish heard of the summons I received from Cersei and asked to share the road. He has pledged to help us in our cause. I could not think of a reason to refuse him, and so here he is.”

An ugly bark of laughter jarred Sansa’s senses before Sandor said, “I’ll give you two. One: he is the slimiest, schemingest asshole in the seven kingdoms and he somehow led your lady mother to believe that the Imp had hired the man sent to open your little brother’s throat with a dagger that belonged to him. Two: he fucks with people's heads and is the reason your father lost his instead of becoming regent. I watched him pull that same dagger off your da's hip and hold it to his throat.” Sandor’s words sounded like a saw on grating on solid ice, chipping away at the carefully built walls around Sansa’s mind.

Her only defense against another memory escaping was to put forth a solid fact. “Joffery ordered father’s death on the steps of the Sept of Balor,” she said in her dead, Kings Landing voice, her gaze on the middle distance, just past what would have been Sandor’s right ear.

The Hound’s sneer twisted across Sandor’s face for a moment. He mastered himself and moved to interrupt Sansa’s far away gaze with his own. “Aye, but that little shit stain never had an original thought in his life.” Sansa blinked and then focused on the tick near his mouth which indicated he was hiding some strong emotion. “His bitch of a mother convinced him that pretending to be moved by your plea for mercy in the throne room was the surest way to hold the throne. The next day he ordered the Hand’s head to roll and the only person I allowed into Joff’s chamber that night was Littlefucker.”

Jon was on his feet before Sandor finished speaking. Sansa stood as well and caught her brother’s arm. “Jon, wait you can’t.”

“I can and I will.” Sansa saw Sandor retreating to the door. The Dragon Queen watched all, her visage placid and serene.

“Jon we can take our revenge at any time, but we can’t unkill him.”

“Then why don’t you tell us the real reason he is aboard this ship, Lady Sansa.” The Queen requested.

Sansa took a deep breath and turned to look at the woman her brother had made her Queen, though she did not release her hold on Jon. “He knows Cersei, your Grace. He has dealt with her for many long years and outsmarted her at every turn. I believe his insights might be useful where we’re going," Sansa stated coolly.

“And even after hearing he was the ochestrator of your father’s death, you still think his usefulness outweighs the threat he poses?” The Queen's tone was as sharp as the throne she wished to hold.

"I have not had time to consider all the information, your Grace,” Sansa told the queen. Then she looked to her brother and beyond to Sandor and back to Jon. “Please, give me a day. Let me talk to him and think about the next course of action.” Her eyes bore down into the darkness of Jon’s willing him to remember he had failed to listen to her once before to his peril.

The tension left Jon’s body. He covered Sansa’s hand on his arm with his own. “I will give him a day, for you to think. But Sansa, if you cannot convince me he is important in the fight against the dead, I’ll have his head.”

“You’ll have to convince me as well.” The Queen echoed. Sansa nodded her understanding, adjusting her thoughts to account for the new power structure, factoring this new reality into her plans.

Sandor’s face said that there was no convincing him. “Sandor, please," Sansa said, letting her hand slide out from underneath Jon's and moving to stand in front of the large man blocking the door.

“What I know is that you were cool as ice when you got in that boat. Then, I row up beside you to help you board, and you can’t even hold up your head. That man is dangerous.”

“I know, but sometimes we need dangerous on our side.” She pled with her eyes for him to understand.

“Aye,” he said heavily, slumping a bit. “You’re in charge.” There was a pause. “You should see the boy. He has been pacing in front of the door most of the morning.” There was an intensity about the low way that this information was conveyed that made Sansa uneasy.

“Fine,” she replied airily. “Send him to the galley for some breakfast. I'll hear him out when he brings the food. Your Grace, would you and Jon join me in breaking my fast?”

Jon looked uncomfortable, as Sansa knew he would and shook his head. “No, I’ll continue to watch our guest from beyond the wall. Sir Jorah could probably use a rest by now.”

“No thank you Lady Sansa, I have already eaten." The queen said before turning her vivid gaze on Jon. "I must admit to a certain amount to curiosity about the dead man. May I walk with you?”

“Certainly, your grace,” Jon said. By his tone, Sansa thought his next move would be to offer the Queen his arm. Sandor cleared his throat as he opened the door for the contrasting pair and it seemed to interrupt Jon’s motion and the smaller man's arm stayed at his side.

Sansa could see Pod in the corridor with an anxious look on his face. She locked eyes with him and shook her head, so he stood patiently instead of bursting into the room the moment that Jon and Daenerys were past him. Sansa could see Sandor’s attention fixed on something down the corridor in the direction that Jon and Daenerys had disappeared. Some time passed in silence until their footfalls faded.

“All right Payne, get your ass in here,” he growled low, then turned to Sansa. “I will go get your breakfast. Give you two a chance to talk.” Sansa's lips tried to tug into a smile at the thought of Sandor becoming more of a chatelaine than a lady's maid, but the memory of his disappointment pressed them into a frown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not may favorite chapter to write because I just want to write Sansan all the live long day. But once i had worked with it and molded it and tweeked it now I feel a sense of satisfaction at doing something well that i wasn't really excited about. What did you guys think? Was the interaction between Sansa and Dany believable after their terrible start? Was the Winterfell reaction to Petyr's crimes appropriate? The thing about Petyr being behind Ned's execution is not explicitly cannon, but for me it at the very least head cannon. What do you guys think about that? Is there anything else you want to talk about?


	13. Painting the Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr's up to his tricks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a short fight. It's the first one I've ever written. I don't like reading fights, so I fear that am not good at writing them. Any con-crit you can give is very appreciated.

Sandor was on his way back from hunting up Sansa’s breakfast when he came upon Petyr Baelish with his ear to her door. With no thought to food or noise, Sandor threw the tray down and drew his sword. Red rage blotted out all the reasons Sansa had given not to kill the smarmy mother fucker.

Baelish turned at the crash of dishes to see Sandor charging him. In his rage, Sandor did not register that the little man did not look surprised or afraid. Just as Sandor was about to swipe Littlefucker's conniving head off his bloody shoulders, the scarred warrior was beset by two men, one on each side. The cramped corridor was no place to swing a longsword especially with a reach like his. Unfortunately, Sandor was beyond caring. His first swing at the man to his right cut the bloody bastard clean through the flank spraying blood everywhere and lodging Sandor's sword firmly in the wall. In the moment it took for him to try to jerk the thing free, the second attacker aimed a chop at the back of the Hound's neck. It deflected off Sandor’s gorget, but shaved a swath of hair from the back of his neck and opened a cut on the scarred side of Sandor’s face as he turned to get a bead on the second attacker.

The Hound abandoned his sword in the wall and turned on the man who had reopened old wounds. Sandor thrust his right hand into the matted hair atop the other man’s head and captured the man’s sword arm at the wrist with is left. Then Sandor Clegane began the process of bashing the man’s life out against the bulwark of the ship. Meanwhile, the blood spurting out of the first attacker became less of a spray and more of a trickle. The second attacker tried gainfully to hack at Sandor with the sword he still held, but even being held at bay with the Hound's off hand, the man was no match for Sandor. Somewhere around the second or third bash, as the first attacker's wound stopped bleeding altogether, Sandor heard the sound he’d been dreading.

Out of his periphery, he could see Pod opening the door. Cold fear rippled down the Hound's spine quenching his rage. “Keep that gods damn door closed, Payne. If they take me, you’ll need the door for a choke point. Put Sansa under the bed, and defend your position.” The door closed with a bang just as Sandor recognized Petyr’s form trying to make a dash for the opening. The idea of that fucking worm getting into the same room with Sansa lent fury to Sandor’s already considerable strength, and this time there was an audible crack and splatter as brains painted the wall.

Dripping in gore, though no longer raging Sandor turned to face Littlefinger. This time the little bastard did not look so unruffled. “Thank the gods you came along when you did Clegane. I’m sure these men would have killed me next on their way to Lady Sansa.”

Sandor grabbed Baelish by the throat and pinned him to the wall. “I told you to stay the fuck away from her.”

“I was only doing what you yourself did, not an hour ago.” Petyr hissed through his fast constricting airway. “Tell the truth, you are so famous for. Half the reason you are so angry is that sometimes she needs _dangerous_ on her side.”

Sandor pulled his arm back, grip still firmly fixed on Littlefucker’s throat and slammed him against the wall again. “How do you know that?” he growled as Petyr’s head bounced off the wall.

“Because I am extremely good at my kind of dangerous, as you are good at yours. We could be the perfect team. Don’t you want Sansa to protected on all sides?” Petyr reasoned. Sandor pulled back again, but before he could slam Baelish into the wall another time, the door opened, and Sansa flew out.

“Sandor stop! You’re hurting him.” she cried rushing to his side, putting her hands around his forearm as if she could pull him off. Her hands could not even encircle his arm.

“I’m not hurting him; I’m killing him.” He squeezed, increasing the pressure infinitesimally. Now that he'd snapped out of his rage, Sandor was determined to enjoy this kill. He felt surprisingly strong digits digging into his face. Sansa had no chance of turning his head to face hers. The choice to meet Sansa's blazing blue eyes was all his own. That felt like the last choice he made. “At least fucking tell me _why_?” he rasped. Sansa took a breath, and he could smell another lie about to be born into the world. “Don’t give me that shite about _unkilling_ ,” he interrupted. “Tell me the gods damn truth or I swear to the Stranger I will snap his fucking neck right fucking now.” Sandor gave Baelish a little shake that was none too gentle. A choking whine escaped the little man.

“If a raven doesn’t arrive at Winterfell weekly baring a prearranged message then the Knights of the Vale will take Winterfell. He told me on the road.” Her words seeped into him, and Sandor could see no safe way around it. He flung Petyr into the wall just hard enough to give his head another crack, but not hard enough to kill him.

Sandor loomed over the battered heap of pimp. “Where’s the last one, you pathetic cunt?”

Petyr glared up at Sandor, with a knowing little smirk contorting his lips his head cocked at the precise angle that made Sandor want to lop it off, “I have no idea what you are talking about. I was listening at the door so as not to barge in on a lady like an uncouth half-wit when you came around the corner and were beset by these strangers.” Petyr was pulling himself into a seated position and straightening his robes as he spoke. “If anything you brought danger to the lady’s doorstep as these men were obviously after you.” As he alluded to Sansa, Littlefucker’s slimy green eyes oozed from Sandor’s to coat her body in their filthy gaze.

A growl ripped from Sandor’s throat, and he lunged again toward the little man who had now begun to rise. Something soft and warm pressed against his side and Sandor realized that Sansa was putting all her weight into not letting him kill Baelish. A not so small cross section of him wanted to keep doing whatever kept her pressed against him, but he relented quickly not wanting to take advantage of the situation. “These are the fuckers from the dock. The ones you hired.” He snarled gesturing at the dead men.

“You know what,” Baelish said stroking his chin pubes, “I think you may be right. I only paid them to row and watch my back. Maybe they came across with ulterior motives. Good help is so hard to find these days,” he lamented theatrically waggling one of his brows at Sansa and sliding a glance up to Sandor.

“Horseshit!” Sandor spat in exasperation. He had zero patience for this fuckery. “You paid them to kill me so you could get your grubby hands on Sansa.”

Petyr made a tsking sound that made Sandor long to ram the smaller man’s teeth down his throat. “Well thanks to your ferocity, I guess we’ll never know.”

Sandor made another lunge for Baelish, with the same results, just as Jon rounded the corner. “What the hells is going on?” he said surveying the carnage and the apparent struggle between Sansa and Sandor.

“Your sister is trying to keep me from killing Littlefucker after his men tried to kill me,” Sandor answered ceasing his attempts at murder for the moment.

“As I was just explaining to the Hound, those are baseless accusations,” Petyr assured Jon as he finally got his feet beneath him. “I was offered the hospitality of this ship, and someone under your command has tried to kill me. What are you going to do about it?”

Sandor saw that Jon was getting that pinched look of Northern pride fixing to take over and fuck something up. “I’m not under his bloody command so don’t go whining to him for protection.”

“Well then hers,” Petyr said, gesturing to Sansa.

Sandor let out a dangerous, grating laugh. “I’ve sworn no oaths to anyone.” There was a popping noise as his fists clenched tight around the hilt his sword that was still buried in the wall. With a grunt and a massive effort Sandor yanked the sword from the wall leaving a wicked gouge in the wood where it met to become a corner.

A nervous laugh escaped Petyr. “Everyone owes fealty somewhere.” Petyr said backing up from Sandor who had not sheathed the reclaimed sword.

“Really, to whom do you owe it?” Sansa interrupted smoothly as she stepped between Sandor and his prey once again. Her eyes and her voice were piercing. For a moment Sandor was sure who was more dangerous.

There was a long beat of silence as Petyr's jade gaze probed her aquamarine glare. “Touché,” the little man proclaimed, his urban tones grating on Sandor's last nerve.

“Well if no one is going to answer my questions then let’s get this mess cleaned up before the Queen sees it,” Jon suggested.

Sandor shrugged his agreement, sheathing his sword. The huge man leaned down throwing the corpse of the first attacker over his shoulder. Sandor straightened up covered in death and asked Jon “Do you know how many of those fuckers that came aboard with Littlefucker are still on board?”

Jon's face wrinkled up with his thinking look for a moment. "I have no idea. I was preoccupied with Sansa." Sandor could almost hear Petyr’s smirk and he longed to bash it off his face.

“Aye me too,” the large warrior growled. _So that is why he risked his life driving Sansa into a frenzy._ His knuckles popped again and he resisted the urge to kill the ferrety little bastard one more time.

"I’ll check," Jon soothed. "Don’t worry Sandor it’s just one or two men. We’ll figure it out and put them ashore at the next stop. How much harm could they do with us here to protect her?” Jon bent to mimic Sandor’s corpse transportation method.

“No,” Sandor grated emphatically to Jon. Then he pinned Baelish with a glare. “Grab his feet,” he commanded, indicating the head wound victim.

“Have you been in the Sour Red again? I'm not cleaning up your mess.” the small man asserted incredulously, straightening up from where he had been leaning with mock nonchalance against one of the only spans of wall bare of blood.

“Grab his fucking feet or I’ll take my chances that the wolf bitch can defend her own territory and I will send you back to your spy in pieces big enough for a raven to carry. How’s that for the fucking truth?”

“I can handle it,” Jon said as if he didn’t want to have another body to carry.

“It’s not that I think you’re too small for the job Snow, but the queen will notice _you_ covered in blood and brains. And I want to keep an eye on this mother fucker,” Sandor said indicating Petyr with his chin. The Hound’s eyes focused back on Petyr. “Now, grab that foot before I put mine up your ass.” Petyr reached down and grabbed the dead man’s feet, every line of his body screaming indignation, but Sandor could tell from the matter of factness of his movements that this was not his first tourney.

Once satisfied that Littlefinger was cooperating Sandor trudged off leading the body disposal party toward the ladder.

“Wait,” he turned as he heard Sansa call out. She hurried toward Jon unclasping the black cloak draped around her shoulders. “He is still dripping,” she told Jon as she wrapped the dead man’s head in the dark cloth. Her next words were low and urgent, but Sandor heard them anyway. “This cloak is very special to me. Do not throw it in the ocean with the body. The blood will wash out. It always does.” For a moment Sandor felt her eyes skim over him.

Looking anywhere but at Sansa, Sandor noticed Pod hovering behind her. “Payne, get this mess cleaned up,” he ordered the squire before turning back toward the ladder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you all think about the level of gore?


	14. Tug of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Body disposal happens in a rather unique way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all like this display of strength.

Sandor waited on the ladder just high enough to see out across the deck, but low enough so that the body on his shoulders was not plainly visible to the deck hands that were going about their business. Jon had told him to wait and be calm. Sandor had done so much waiting in his life he considered himself a professional. Staying calm whilst sharing air with Littlefucker who stood by the body he’d helped Jon carry, at the foot of the ladder was another story.

 

Sandor made an effort though, because he had an idea how Jon was going to get rid of the bodies without carrying them across a deck in the morning sun for all and the Maiden, Mother, and Crone to see. Sure enough, after a short while, Sandor heard the beating of wings, and he felt a blast of heat buffet the back of his neck painfully. He froze in terror, sure that this was the end.

 

“Clegane, feed him,” Jon’s voice seemed to come out of nowhere, urgently.

 

Sandor turned to see that Jon was standing on the deck Rhaegal hovering beside him, not touching the ship though his great spiked tail could have scraped the deck boards if it were relaxed. In the sky above them both, Sandor could see the huge, black Drogon swooping through the sky.

 

Not needing to be told twice, Sandor lifted the body off his shoulders and held it above his head with little effort. Sandor felt two drops into his hair before Rhaegal snatched the dead weight from Sandor almost daintily, his teeth grazing Sandor’s gauntlet harmlessly. There was another blast of hot breath, and the smaller dragon was away effortlessly with his breakfast clutched in his jaws.

 

Drogon screamed from the sky. “Get the other one up here. Drogon’s trickier with anyone who isn’t Dany,” Jon said urgently. Sandor gestured to Baelish who was keeping the other body propped up at the bottom of the ladder.  
“I could just let him fall, and leave Drogon with only you to eat.” Petyr said sinisterly.

 

“I could just chase you down and feed you to the black beast instead of the dead man. I’ve heard he likes his prey still squirming,” Sandor snarled back.

 

Petyr grudgingly handed Sandor the end of the man’s leather belt which had been fastened under his arms so that Sandor could pull him up the shaft quickly. With a bit more effort due to the angle and the tight space, Sandor got the second body he’d made this morning up the shaft and hoisted over his shoulders to become dragon chow.

 

The sound that Drogon made dropping out of the sky toward the boat was stomach churning. Kind of a whistling like a spinning arrow, but made by a dragon-sized displacement of air. When Drogon blotted out the sun, it was all Sandor could do not to let go of the ladder and cower at the bottom of the shaft. Only the thought of exposing himself to Baelish in that state saved him from that cowardly fate when Drogon trumpeted his hunger to the sky and sea. In that moment where Sandor thought he was going to die he remembered Sansa’s cloak. Driven by the memory of the intensity lacing her voice, Sandor wrapped the trailing end of the garment around his arm.

 

Drogon set upon the corpse. Sandor would have been knocked down the ladder shaft if his arm had not been tangled in the cloak. He was being saved from that fate because Drogon was lifting him into the air along with the body. Sandor hooked his steel-shod boots in the last rung of the ladder and for a moment hung suspended between deck and sky by dragon power. Drogo screamed his impatience around the body the body clamped in his teeth. Sandor bellowed his own emotions back at the dragon. He contracted his body so strongly that he made the dragon’s altitude dip. There was a pop and rip and Sandor felt himself laid out flat on the deck looking up at a clear blue sky with a head falling out of it. He rolled to the side instinctively, just as the wind of a great scaled beast’s passing buffeted him again. Rhegal swooped so low to catch the falling head that the scales of his underbelly scraped Sandor’s armor.

 

“You are one crazy son of a bitch,” Jon was laughing down at him. “You know you don’t have to do everything my sister tells you. She can make another cloak.”

 

“It’s reflex now,” Sandor growled as he sat up taking stock of all his parts. His leg hurt no more than usual, though there was a new pain in his right foot. He flexed his abs and pecks. They felt strained, but not torn. Sandor rotated his arms. His shoulders felt tight, but nothing was out of socket. He was surprised to find that above all his neck and face hurt.

 

“Yeah well, you may want to take what’s left of her cloak back to her along with yourself for stitching.”

 

“That bad?” asked Sandor a note of resignation in his voice.

 

Jon laughed down at him again, “You have a queer shaved area that starts at the back of your head and turns into a cut where most people have an ear. You’re bleeding enough that I suggest you use that cloak the same way the dead man was. But all in all, since you almost pulled a dragon out of the sky, I’d say you’re doing all right.”

 

“Har, har pretty boy,” Sandor rasped. He meant to glare up at Jon, but the sun was behind the standing man, so instead, Sandor's eyes landed upon the other man’s cloak. Sandor unwound what was left of Sansa’s cloak from around his arm. “Why’s your cloak wavy at the edges?” Sandor asked the Northerner. He thought he’d had a similar one once, but beyond finding clothes big enough to fight his body allowing him a full range of movement he didn't give two bloody fucks about his clothes.

 

“Sansa made it for me,” Jon explained. “Her Lady Mother used to make them the like that for our father. It’s a river lands tradition. So that the waters will carry the wearer home, or some such.”

 

Sandor inspected the cloak in his hands. He wrested more than half of it back from the dragon and so counted it a win. “She did it to her own too,” Sandor said once he found one of the corners that hadn’t been ripped away.

 

“That’s strange. It’s only supposed to be good luck for men.” Jon mused offering him a hand up.

 

For a long moment, Sandor just stared blankly at the thing in his hand. The cloak he’d worn with the wavy edges had not started out that way. When he'd received it from Joffrey it had been long and white and straight seemed. But when it had come back from being dropped around Sansa’s pretty pink teats, it had come back to him via castle page with wavy edges smelling of lemons, lavender, and her. He'd wondered at the change, but as it did not impact the function of the garment, he'd said nothing. Sir Balon Swan had also noted it one day and had the balls to tease Sandor about having an admirer who was good with a needle. Sandor had offered to knock him into the middle of next week so he could start telling everyone's fortunes with more accuracy. He'd considered beating the man to death, because the last thing the Little Bird needed was to be romantically linked to anyone, least of all him. _Was I planning to take her away even then?_ Sandor questioned himself.

 

An impossible suspicion was dawning on Sandor as he sat staring stupidly on the deck of a South bound ship years later, and he seemed to feel all ways about it. Those feelings were pulling at him, threatening to tear something loose. Jon cleared his throat and waggled his hand impatiently. Sandor looked up and registered the hand for the first time. He accepted it gratefully as he had no wish to scramble to get his bad leg under him in inflexible armor. Once standing Sandor continued to stare at the cloak in wonder. “May as well count the hairs on a dog as try to figure a woman’s mind, my da used to say.”

 

“Speaking of which, here comes the queen. Best get below.”

 

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Sandor deliberately turned his back on the approaching queen and started down the ladder. From anyone else that might have been considered the height of rudeness, but for Sandor Clegane it was what passed for normal.

 

When he reached the bottom, Baelish was nowhere to be seen. “Bloody buggering balls,” Sandor swore as he strode off toward Sansa’s cabin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to Adult Orphan and anyone else who guessed what was going on with Sansa's cloak. I know this is a well used trope in SanSan fan fic, but I hope I've put a unique spin on it. Tell me what you think.


	15. Clean Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's happening below deck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short and probably not what you wanted, but when I started writing this is what came out. I learned a couple of things about my characters in this chapter. I hope you all find some worth in it too. Eventually I expect this story to grow beyond SanSan. That is why I am doing so much work with Pod. Please give me your thoughts on this in the comments.

Sansa could feel the negative emotion coming off of Sandor in waves as he strode down the corridor a fresh corpse of his own making strewn across his broad shoulders. Though he had just been in a fight for his life and cursing Petyr, Sansa felt that a lot of the anger and confusion was directed at her. She was hopeful that it was because she’d stopped him from killing Petyr again, but many times her hopes had been proven false.

“My Lady,” Pod’s voices snapped her out of her fixed stare focused Sandor’s back. “What shall I clean this up with? I don’t want to leave you unguarded to fetch anything.”

Sansa looked at the proof of Sandor’s fighting skills splattered all over the hallway and regretted giving Jon her cloak. It was the only black garment she’d brought with her.

“The Queen will probably not like this, but we’ll use the tapestries from my cabin.” Moments later Sansa had climbed up on various pieces of furniture in her cabin to bring down two of the wall hangings. She handed one to Pod, who received it awkwardly.

Sansa took a moment to survey the carnage. She was more than a little overwhelmed and did not know where to begin. _Anywhere is as good as somewhere else to start with a mess as big as this one,_  old Nan's voice echoed out of the past. Sansa remembered the old woman standing with the Stark children and Jon in a kitchen that they'd decimated with a food fight. The maid that caught them at it went for Old Nan instead of Lady Catlyn so their only punishment was that they'd had to clean it up. Sansa could remember being quite resentful as she had not been throwing eggs, though she was the one who ended up scraping yoke out of the flagstones because her long, lovely nails were best suited for the job. _And here I am in a bloody hallway because I am not strong enough to carry a body,_ she thought as she began to kneel. “My Lady,” Pod interrupted her movement with is his words, “You’ll ruin your dress. The Queen will also ask questions if you are covered in blood. Maybe you could wipe down the wall?”

“Yes, of course, Podrick that is an excellent idea,” Sansa said, smiling at the clever way that Pod disguised his suggestion as a question. _He has been trained well to serve, but his wits make him fit for far more,_ Sansa thought as she moved to a grayish pink spot on the wall. She swallowed a gag and probably would have brought up her breakfast had she had any.

“My Lady, you do not have to do this,” Pod said. He was kneeling on the rolled up tapestry using just a corner to scrub with while protecting his breeches with many layers of cloth. _A thing he did not suggest to me because he doesn’t think it’s my place to scrub floors,_ Sansa thought. She narrowed her eyes at Pod. “It will take two of us to get this cleaned up,” she said. “And I need to work on strengthening my stomach. Not everything a lady does is pleasant.” She distinctly recalled watching Ramsy’s favorite bitch eat his face. It did not bring her nightmares. _I can do this too,_ she thought as she wiped the brains and blood from the wall.

“But there are less horrible things to clean up,” Pod persisted. “You could clean up the spilled food around the corner.”

“We can have a regular servant clean that up once we are done with this.” She decreed as she tucked the hem of her skirt up into the girdle of her dress to keep it out of the gore on the floor. "Do what you must yourself and have others do the rest," Sansa passed some of Petyr's sager advice to Pod. “We’ll have to scrub our shoes well. I hope Sandor and the others didn’t track blood too far down the corridor.” As Sansa finished speaking there came a sound that curdled her blood. “Was that a dragon scream?” she asked Pod.

“I can’t say,” the boy was pale until his eyes landed on her bare legs and then his face went scarlet. It had not occurred to Sansa that her ankles would discomfit her shield. She was just beginning to consider the ramifications when she heard another dragon call. This time it was followed by a familiar roar that drove all other thoughts from her mind to be replaced by, a very clear picture of Sandor Clegane wrestling a dragon. The vision filled her mind with dread, that propelled her down the corridor. Suddenly Pod’s arms were around her waist, and she was thrashing and pulling enough to cause herself pain. “Let go of me,” she said her voice distorted by her frantic bids for freedom.

“My Lady, if he is fighting a dragon what, can you do?”

“Watch. Witness. Whatever he’s doing, I know it’s for me. He only does stupid things for me.” Sansa was near tears now and babbling.

Pod gave her a gentle little shake. “Lady Sansa, you will make the mess bigger.”

Something about his words made her snap. “Fuck the mess,” she shrieked.

With strength born of desperation, Sansa pushed away from Podrick and made it a few steps further down the corridor. Then there was a swooping sensation as he caught her around the middle again and tossed her over his shoulder. _He's only and inch taller than me and yet he can do as he pleases with my body._ This realization shocked Sansa into silence for a moment before she began to hammer Pod’s back with her fists and knee him in the chest. He clamped his arm around her legs, not stopping her movements altogether, but limiting the damage she could do. Sansa was just angling for a position to bite from when Pod heaved her rather unceremoniously into her cabin. The door slammed shut before she could get her bearings.

###

“Well that was a touching scene,” the voice drawled out of the darkness that the men baring bodies had disappeared down. Pod turned quickly, but could not draw his sword even though the sound of that voice always made his palms itch to do so. He currently needed both his hand to keep Sansa in her room. More so with the sound of that voice approaching.

“You’re supposed to be helping, Clegane,” Pod said, gathering every inch of authority he could muster.

“Clegane is beyond anyone’s help, I am afraid,” Baelish oozed as he strolled down the hallway heedless of the blood that was as much his mess as anyone’s.

“What happened?” Pod could not help but ask.

“He decided to wrestle a favor from a dragon and got more than he bargained for,” Petyr informed Pod smugness underlying every word the slime ball uttered. Pod’s stomach sank as he squared his shoulders preparing to do his best to fight weaponless on two fronts.

Petyr stopped right in front of him and looked him up and down before drawing a wickedly sharp dagger. “If I slit your throat right now, do you think she’d ever forgive herself? Or would she even notice?”

A very real fear gripped Podrick’s bowels, but he stood his ground. Petyr smiled as he raised his dagger.

Heavy Footsteps echoed down the hallway. The former Master of Coin of the Seven Kingdoms took to his heels in the other direction. Podrick let out a sigh that felt like it began in his toes and let his head fall back against the door that was still jerking violently from Sansa's efforts to join Clegane in what ever shenanigans he had been engaged in. _Maybe I should just let her he out,_ Pod thought. _There is a good chance that if Baelish had slit my throat just now she wouldn't have even stopped to check if I were alive on her way to watch Clegane die._

As if the thought of him had conjured the man, Sandor Clegane came striding out of the darkness. “Boy you were supposed to clean this up,” he growled gesturing to the mess.

“Why don’t you clean up your own fucking mess?” Pod shouted at him.

The Hound’s head tilted dangerously. “What’s gotten into you, Payne?”

Podrick raised his head off the door. It was still now since Clegane had begun barking at him. He leveled the scarred giant with a long, hard, gaze. Clegane was bleeding from a head wound, and he had Lady Sansa’s cloak pressed to his face. How many times had Podrick seen his mistress in the same pose, though thankfully without the blood, when she thought no one was watching her? Pod figured it really was time for them to sort their own bleeding mess out. “Nothing ser,” Pod answered. He saw the slight flinch from the other man, but Sandor didn’t say anything. Pod removed himself from in front of the door and knelt again upon his bloody tapestry to do his part in managing the mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sure you guys have noticed that there are other relationship tags on this story. Are you excited by any of them? Once Sansa and Sandor are together will you be less interested in the story if the focus shifts?


	16. Hard Knocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansan is going to work out a lot of their shit. These are the feels people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a big chapter for me. I hope it will be for you too.

Relief crashed over Sansa when she heard Sandor’s rasping voice from the corridor. She sagged against the door for a moment. Her eyes drifted unseeingly around the sumptuous cabin. It was dim as the portholes currently faced west and the morning sun was illuminating the other side of the ship. What little light there was gleamed off souvenirs of someone's world travels. The bed was still a mess of haphazardly piled furs. The brazier glowing near it added a bit of lurid light to the room.

A hard knock at the door brought Sansa out of her gratitude daze. She somehow knew it was Sandor, but she also knew he’d bark at her for opening the door to just a knock. “Identify yourself,” she called. She was going to smooth down her dress and hair but caught herself when she noticed that her hands were smeared with blood. There was also quite a bit of blood on her dress. _Pod’s hands must have been bloody,_ she thought.

“Little Bird, open up!” Sandor's voice sounded urgent, and she rushed to comply. She turned the latch and flung the heavy door aside.

“What the bloody fuck happened to you?” He was holding her cloak to the burned side of his face, and Sansa was struck by the strangeness of seeing him with his scars truly covered. It was very unsettling for her. His scars meant safety to her in so many ways. He was not what she would call handsome, but surely striking, with his hooked nose, deep-set eyes and prominent cheekbones.

Sansa blinked at him for a moment and then registered the only reason she could think of that he would cover his face. “Are you hurt?” She closed the distance to him and tried to peer under the cloth.

“I asked you first,” was his surly reply, though he must have allowed her to pull his arm down because the cloak lowered to reveal a thin but deep slash that started on the side of this head and ran across his burned cheek turning sharply up to point at his stormy gray eye. His eyes were fixed to her face as if gauging the severity of his wound by her reaction to it.

“I’m fine,” Sansa finally answered after she’d determined that his cut was not deep enough to be life threatening. “Does it hurt?”

“Can’t feel a fucking thing on that side.” He said gruffly. “Didn’t even know I was hurt until your brother sent me down to get stitched up.”

Sansa flinched and backed up. “I’ve stitched a lot of things, but never a person.”

“Well I’m sure you’re used to working with a lot prettier materials than me, but it will help it heal faster. Also less chance it will fester. I can walk you through it, but I’d rather not do it myself.”

“You’ve sewn...on yourself?” Sansa's question sounded small and childish from the inside. She cringed inwardly, waiting for his mocking reply.

“A time or two but it is definitely not my preference,” he rasped matter of factly his words and tone devoid of the meaness she expected. Sansa took a deep breath to settle herself in the idea of Sandor's steel gaze untempered by rage being the new normal for him. Even after a fight. His voice continued on in a low rumble, “Will you do it for me?”

Something swelled inside of Sansa. When others needed something from her, especially men, they rarely asked. “Of course I will,” she said warmly.

“First off, we’ll need boiling water.” His grating voice was brisk again. This was the business of being a warrior.

There was a heavy sigh from out in the corridor. “I'll fetch it.” Pod said resignedly getting up from his tapestry once more.

Sansa became aware that she and Sandor had been standing in the doorway of her cabin, half in and half out for an awkward amount of time. Something in Pod’s voice made her heart clench. She moved so that she could see around Sandor, “Podrick…Thank you.” She tried to make her words a blanket apology.

“Of course, my lady.” Pod said before heading off in the direction of the galley. 

Sansa reentered her cabin to find Sandor fanning the coals on the brazier. “Do you have a needle?” he asked.

“Always,” Sansa replied. She shut the door and then lifted her pack from the floor to set it on the bed so she wouldn't have to stoop to look through it.

“Of course you do,” Sandor said. There was a sad kind of humor in his voice that Sansa did not understand.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sansa asked as she rummaged in her pack for her sewing kit. The first thing that came to hand were a frilly pair of her knickers that she thought she'd lost. For a moment she toyed with the idea of pulling them out and laying them out of the furs where Sandor could not miss them, but then decided that was silly and stupid and so pushed them toward the bottom of her pack.

###

“Did your sister tell you about the time she spent with me?” Sansa was pawing through her pack, her pretty brow all wrinkled up by his question. She looked up at him and burst out laughing.

“When I asked her how she’d survived the war-torn countryside, Arya told me that she’d wished for a good, mean dog, but when she got him, she didn’t realize how loyal he was until she almost killed him.” Her laugh poured over him like fresh water. Sandor wanted to soak the ache of his soul in it for the rest of his lousy life, but he wasn’t clean yet. And he needed to be before he earned the right to laugh with her.

Irritation at needing to end this moment made his words harsher than he wanted. “That sounds like a bunch of fucking riddles.”

His words killed her laugh. “Yes, well that’s pretty much how she talks now. She used to be such an open little thing always spilling out with exactly what was going through her mind…” Sansa’s words trailed off in sadness and Sandor longed for the laugh like he'd once longed for sour red. He cursed himself for ending it too soon.

"Well I guess wandering with a wine-soaked asshole from one bloody smear of your kin to another, always just a little too late, will do that to a person.” Sandor recognized his fear response in the roughness of his tone, and he tried to use the techniques Elder Brother had taught him to reign it in. He wanted, no, he needed to confess. But he didn't want to do it as the Hound. He needed to be Sandor the man when he came clean. He took a deep breath in through his nose, concentrated on holding it for a moment and then blew it out through his mouth.

“What do you mean?” Sansa's voice was sharp, and she stopped any pretense of searching her pack to turn her vivid blue eyes up at him.

He realized then that he’d been more afraid of this conversation than he had been of the dragons. _Sack up you bloody coward,_ he told himself. _If you can’t be honest with her, then you don’t deserve to be anything else to her._ He tried to let his fear out along with another long breath. “After I fled from…the fire I was riding drunkenly through the Crownlands on a bender, cursing the gods and myself for not just kidnapping you." He could see her lip begin to tremble and her face turned an alarming shade of red. Sandor figured she had every right to be enraged by what he’d done to her that night. That was next on his list for apologies. But for now, he had to go on or risk not finishing. "I had a vague idea that I would wander around the war until I ran into my brother and I killed him, or he killed me.” Another deep breath and he went on. “Anyway, I’d passed out drunk and fallen off Stranger when I was set upon by a group of outlaws. Damned if your sister wasn’t one of them.” Sandor felt his burned lip twitch up in what passed for his gruesome smile at the memory of the little wolf. “They were going to ransom her and execute me.” Sansa looked alarmed, and he rushed to allay her fear. “They were treating her fine. She was free to run around with a bright-eyed copy of Robert Baratheon that I’m sure was one of the bastards that slipped Cersei’s noose.” Sansa’s expression didn’t change all the much. “Point is she was well treated and happy to list all my sins. I won my trial by combat though I was burnt bad during the fight.” Now, Sansa’s face folded it up in concern. The Hound searched her expression for pity or disgust, but Sandor caught himself before he could lash out. “Don’t fash yourself. It was minor considering…” He gestured to his face. “Anyway they patched me up, and that blue-eyed kid kept your sister from stabbing me while I bawled like a babe.” Here Sandor paused overwhelmed by the shame of his phobia. His hesitation beyond the wall had cost Thoros his life. _I’m a bloody fucking hindrance to those I want to help until I get my shit under control,_ he castigated himself. Another deep breath and he went on. “Even though I had just been in a fight for my life, I don’t think I was sober until the fire licked me, but after it did, I was awake to all my pain inside and out. The Outlaws let me keep my horse, but I wanted my gold back. So I followed them and demanded it. They laughed at me and threatened to kill me. I almost let them. I’d had a purpose all my life, that or strong drink. Now I was sober, without money to fix that condition, alone with just myself and I couldn’t take it. I kept shadowing them not sure why when one rainy night the she-wolf came bolting out of their camp with a bee in her bonnet.” That description tugged at the corners of Sansa’s lips. If there was anyone less likely to be wearing a bonnet than the wolf-bitch he didn’t know who it would be. “So I took her. Maybe to make up for not taking you. Maybe to keep her safe. Maybe because I couldn’t stand being alone with myself one more gods damn minute. I told myself it was because they owed me for the gold and I started trying to ransom her. The first place we headed was River Run. Course she thought I was taking her back to Cersei and she kept trying to kill me until I had to tie her up just to get a full night’s sleep.” Sansa covered a smile at this, but her eyes were awash with unshed tears. Sandor swallowed another lump of fear. “We got to the Twins just as the fighting broke loose. She tried to run in and die with your mum and brother, but I hit her over the head and took her off again, although not before she saw some truly fucked up shit.” Now those tears were sliding down Sansa’s face like rivers poured out of brilliant oceans. He wished he had another handkerchief like the one he’d wiped blood from her cracked lip once, but years of hard living had used up his allotment of white cloth. So instead he offered her a corner of the cloak that was still wadded up in his fist in a death grip. She accepted the bit so it stretched between them. “So then we headed for the Eerie. Your sister, she wasn’t right. I had to threaten her out of her bedroll every morning, badger her into eating. With me, she had always been a quiet little thing, but now she didn’t make a peep, except to say her creepy little prayer every buggering night. She even stopped trying to kill me. I was worried, but I only knew how to bark.”

Sansa reached out and covered his hand with hers. “She is still cloaked in a heavy darkness, and I don’t know how to reach her either. You did the best you could.” Sander squeezed her hand relishing in its probable last kindliness to him. He wished he could live in this moment, but Sandor knew he had to go on if he was going to look at his reflection in the wash bowl every morning. It was not easy task to begin with.

“Next we headed for the Eerie to your Aunt, but when we got there a guard at the Gate of the Moon told us she died not a week ago.” Sansa’s hand went lax and slid from his. All the color drained from her face. 

“I was there,” she said. The lifelessness in her voice chilled Sandor’s blood as it seemed an echo of Arya’s voice the morning after the Red Wedding when the little wolf had told him they didn't need to try to rescue her mum. “I was right there,” he felt some relief as her tone was more strident, more vibrant. Then she turned from him dropping the hold she'd had on the cloak, and grabbed some trinket off one of the many tables and hurled it into the wall shattering it into a star count of pieces. “I was right there!” she screamed and rounded on him. The blow of her balled up fist made a hollow clanging sound against his breastplate. She was wearing a ring of some sort on her pinky. He thought hitting his armor must have hurt her, but she followed the first blow with another and another continuing her litany of “I was there.” Each phrase was a dagger to his chest. He was afraid she’d scream herself hoarse or bruise herself, but he would not shield himself from her fury. He deserved every iota or reproach she could throw at him. But the third time her voice broke, he found he could not take it anymore. He did something he’d never done to another human before, at least not tenderly to offer comfort. Sandor Clegane raised his arms, cloak still clenched in his fist, and encircled Sansa. As he did so, a dim memory of his sister comforting him after a childhood nightmare floated to the surface of his mind. Sandor began to sway from side to side. To his utter astonishment Sansa’s shrieks turned to sobs and she went lax against him. Her open palm still slapped against his armored chest every now and then. He did nothing to stop it. Instinctively, he began to shh along with the sway, not to quiet her, but to remind her she was not alone. Gradually, her tears slowed, and her sobs came further apart.

When she lifted her head to peer blearily at him, he said, “If I had known you were there, I would have been the first man ever to take the Eerie even if I’d had to climb the fucking thing with the she-bitch strapped to my back.” Sansa nodded sniffing. Though she'd cried a storm's worth, her bright blue eyes were still blazing.

“I know. That not why I'm mad. I’m mad that you didn’t just take me like you took her. I’m jealous that you were kind to her when you were ever only a…an…asshole to me. But most of all I am so mad at myself for not just going with you that night. I was so stupid to stay. I had prayed and prayed for so long for someone to save me that I didn’t even recognize him when he was standing before me promising to keep me safe.” Her voice was low and raw from her harsh use of it and the jagged emotions she'd let loose.

The edges of Sansa’s broken voice scraped at his soul. His hands moved to clasp her shoulders, his fingers tightened on her shoulders to try to press the meaning of his next words deep into her. Bone deep. His gaze bore into hers. Soul deep. “Don’t you dare beat yourself up about that! It’s not as if I came down on a shaft of light, a gods ordained hero. I showed up drunk in your room, covered in blood and my own fear vom. I held a fucking knife to your throat. Gods damn me, Sansa, I was there to take you, but not like you think. I-“

She put her hand over his mouth to stop his next words. “I know. At the time I didn’t truly understand all the things that were digging into me, but much to my own sorrow I am a woman grown. Now I do.”

Sandor took a step back from her and dropped to one knee, his head bowed. “I am so fucking sorry. I’m sorry that I shamed you for being kind. I’m sorry that I tried to change you, to toughen you up. I’m sorry that I lusted after you. I’m sorry that I was such a fucking coward that I didn’t save you. I was afraid to lose my position. I was afraid to fail and have us both end up tortured to death. I was afraid that if I took you with me, I would lose control of myself and ruin the only pure, good thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. I am so fucking sorry I was not the man you needed me to be.” Sandor thought that if he lowered his head, the only part of him not encased in steel, Sansa might take a few swings at it and make them both feel better. He was incredibly, pleasantly surprised to find himself wrapped in a very warm, very soft embrace. Her arms wrapped around his head pressing his face against her teats stirring his insides, along with his cock. He could hear her heart beating like the wings of a little bird with the ruin of ear. He felt the weight of her head on top of his. Hesitatingly he gingerly wrapped his arms around her waist careful not to stray up or down, though he did relish the tickle of her fiery locks over his fingers that were still clasping the cloak. There had never been anything he wanted to do less than finish his story, but he could not progress until this wound was thoroughly lanced and all the putrid pus was drained. He recognized the cowardice in not looking her in the eye for the last bit, but somethings were just beyond him. "I've not reached the worst part yet," his voice was even more gravely than usual. "Your sister and I crossed paths with Payne's huge knight-bitch who tried to take her from me. I fought one of the most brutal fights of my life, but I lost. The little wolf must have hidden, because once the fight was over Arya" -Sandor wasn't sure he'd ever used the girl's out loud or in his head. It tasted funny, salty and bloody, like a good fight- "circled back to where I lay broken and bleeding at the foot of a steep incline that big wench pushed me down. I thought I was dying, so I begged the she-wolf for mercy. She wouldn't give it, so I...I said things...about you...horrible fucking things..." Sandor could feel the salt sting in his new cut, but he forced himself to go on. "Things that made you into a thing. I was trying to piss her off enough to kill me, but I went too far and made myself unfit for mercy. And I used you to do it." He sniffed mightily. "And, the gods damn me, at least part of it was truth."

Sansa was quiet through out his confession though he had felt more warm plops on his scalp. He was pretty sure more that just his own tears were stinging his cut. When he fell silent, she let silence reign for a very long time. Then her arms tightened around him and she whispered, "I forgive you."

They stayed like that until his leg began to ache. He cursed his battered old body as he pulled away from her. He looked up at her horrified for a moment. “What the-“

She stumbled away from him in shock, but not before he put his hand shot out to wipe blood off her cheek. “So it was dead man’s blood and not dragon spit that dripped on me. That ought to teach you not to go hugging dirty old dogs, girl.” He said grunting as he got laboriously dragged himself to his feet again. Even with the blood off her face she still looked a little wounded. He blinked and her features were smooth again.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” she chirped at him.

“Aye," he replied gruffly not liking her mask. "We’d both better wash and change, first though. I'll need to sit down for the stitching, and I don't want to foul any of the Queen's finery,” he said employing the age-old technique of self-depreciation to lighten the mood. "I’ll send Payne for my pack when he brings the water.”

Sansa nodded flushing scarlet. “The only thing this well-appointed room lacks is a changing screen,” she said lightly seeming to play along. It was like she was trying to apologize for the room's lack, but Sandor didn’t think she sounded all that sorry. Something about it didn't quite ring true, but it didn't make him feel uncomfortable the way lies usually did.

It was his stiffening cock that made him uncomfortable. “I know how to face a wall.” Sandor rasped, irritated by the quickening of his pulse, among other bodily reactions.

“What if I-“ Sansa’s words were cut off by a hard knock at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel so good after writing this chapter. There is so much shit between Sandor and Sansa and, for me at least it's now solved to my satisfaction. Sansa still needs to make her confession, but there isn't quite as much crap on her side. Tell me what you think. I need feed back on this one especially.


	17. Prettiest Scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor gets stitched up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. What I thought was going to be a fun little Halloween romp grew out of control. I haven't forgotten about this story though it might be on a bit of a hiatus while I indulge in a Westrosi Holidays Trilogy. If that sort of shenaigans interests you it's called Hallows at High Heart. I've had this chapter written for quite sometime and it just needed the final polish so enjoy!

_...don't want you to face the wall?_ Sansa finished the thought in her mind as Sandor moved to the door. He dropped the torn cloak over the foot of the bed to free the hand he wasn’t resting on his hilt to open the door. Predictably it was Pod hands mitted carrying a steaming cauldron of water. Over the mouth of the cauldron was a platter of meat, bread, and cheese that looked like it was inadvertently starting to melt.

Sansa’s tummy exclaimed it’s happiness, with a loud gurgled that belied the level of enthusiasm the rest of her was experiencing at Pod’s interruption. He grinned at her showing he’d clearly heard her tummy. “Since you didn’t get your breakfast,” he said cheerily bearing his sloshing burden toward the sideboard giving an expert jerk that sent the large plate sliding neatly onto the surface that very lately held the glass bowl that was shattered on the floor. All this was accomplished without spilling more than a couple of drops.

“Set it here by the brazier,” Sandor directed. He followed Pod to the designated area with the wash basin. Sandor dipped the shallow porcelain bowl into the steaming kettle and positioned it right over the coals on the brazier. Sansa opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “Yes it’s bad for the basin, but the Dragon Queen can bloody well buy a new one. The water needs to boil, or there is no point in jabbing me over and over. Once the water is boiling, drop your needle and thread in. Payne, get the wooden handled knife that came with the food, wipe it off and set the blade to boil. San-Lady Sansa can use it to fish the needle out once the time comes. What’s in that decanter over there? Does it smell like alcohol? Pour it in the wound.” There was a string of vile curses as Pod did as instructed.

Sansa’s hunger turned queasy though she went over to the platter and daintily consumed a few bites of cheese anyway. The last thing she needed was to become light headed during the patching up process.

Next Sansa went to her pack to give her something firm to hold onto and focused on finding her sewing kit. She felt weighed down by all that Sandor had told her, and she longed to unburden herself in the same fashion, but could not until Pod was gone. Probably should not until she was done closing the wound on Sandor’s face. She located her sewing kit quite quickly this time but kept her gaze to the inside of her pack as Sandor and Pod went back and forth about who would fetch Sandor’s pack and when. There was some discussion on whether it was more crucial that Sandor be clothed than the hallway be cleaned. Sansa paid no attention to their discussion. She needed the time to herself to process what she’d just been through. On the whole, she felt quite vindicated in seeing Sandor live up to the kindness she’d thought him capable of all along. After all, if he’d been like the knights in Kings Landing, he would have joined in her beatings, instead of calling a halt to the worst. "Knights are for killing," she remembered him saying long ago in King's Landing. Sandor was for something else. Sansa was beginning to think she knew what that something else might be. She said a silent prayer of gratitude to the Mother for indeed gentling the rage inside of him. Sansa had stopped praying to the seven after her marriage to Ramsy, however now that Sandor had returned to her and because she’d sent him off with a hymn to the mother, she felt another to welcome him back would be quite fitting. And last but not least, his apology had included shame for lusting after her. The thought of it sent a thrill of sensations spilling through her body. Her breasts felt heavy, and her nipples stiffened. Her lips, all of them, felt plumper. Her pulse raced with excitement and a thread of anxiety. _He would be gentle with me. I knew it even before the confession, but now…I feel so much more. I just need to get him to see me as a woman instead of a girl._ She supposed she could literally show him, but that would mean exposing him to everything else. _If he can be so truthful with me I owe him the same,_ she thought.

Sansa was startled out of her reverie by the sound of the door closing, just as Sandor set down a last piece of metal in a stack that came to his knees. He stood amid his shucked armor in a rust and possibly blood but certainly sweat-stained, quilted doublet and breeches. They were the un-dyed color of raw linen, and he looked oddly vulnerable though no less hulking. “Where were you off to wool-gathering, then?” He asked her with his voice like a saw through wet wood.

Sansa blushed fiercely imagining for a moment what would happen if she told him the truth. Her tongue darted out to lick the end of thread she held in one hand before she deftly threaded it through the needle she was holding in the other. Sansa was very aware that his eyes tracked her every movement. _I was thinking about you and your lust and what it would feel like to have you between my thighs._ Would he fall on her and prove that lust upon her body if she mustered the courage to say it out loud? Sansa shook her head. _No, I have to remember he is a real person, not a construct woven from my fantasies._ His words about turning her into a thing before Arya had truly struck home to Sansa. She didn’t want to thing him either. Sansa didn’t want to use him. She didn’t know what to say that would be the truth, but not start something that should not be finished before he was sewn up. “I was just thinking about all that you said. It means a lot to me.”

Sansa used filigree embossed silver scissors to snip a good length of thread away from the spool. She dropped the needle and thread into the steaming basin as instructed. After a moment’s thought, she tossed the scissors in too. One never knows when a clean cutting edge might be needed. “Aye, well I came along way to say it,” Sandor said as he made his way to the bed and sank down on it with a groan. “I’m glad you’re not stomping on my balls and kicking me in the teeth.” Sitting thus, on the bed, his face was well within her reach. She also couldn't help noticing, that his eyes were soft and gray like the steam that rose from the hot spring at the foot of the heart tree at Winterfell. Sansa wanted to sink into them and bask in their warmth.

Mastering all her desires that warred against practicality she asked, “What stitch shall I use on your wound?”

His intense gaze faded into doubtfulness. “I’m not sure what you mean by that question.”

“There are many different kinds of stitches,” She explained patiently. “What is the best way to close a wound?”

“I don’t know.” His response was a bit sluggish as though he was having some trouble focusing on what she was saying.

“But you said you’ve done it before,” Sansa was beginning to feel apprehensive, doubting her ability to help him. Her voice was high and tight reflecting those emotions.

“Aye, but I can’t explain it, past I pulled the needle in and out of the skin on either side of the wound. I doubt that answers your question.” He was right. It did not.

Sansa tamped down her frustration. This was not a time to become vexed. He needed her skill with sewing not her mooning after him.

Remembering one of the ways to learn a new stitch when the seamstress who sewed it was not on hand to teach you, Sansa asked, “Let me see the wound you sewed up.”

“You don’t want to see that one. It’s pretty fucking rough. I’d rather my face not look like a blind drunk tried to stitch a rip in a rag doll.”

“Alright, then show me your prettiest scar.”

He barked a laugh. “You’ll have to settle for my second loveliest,” he said rolling up his sleeve. Sansa’s eyes fastened to the expanse of bare, hairy skin Sandor was revealing as he pushed up his sleeve. The slide and play of muscles beneath that skin made her heart speed up, and she felt more than a little light headed. “This little nick,” he said as he turned his arm over causing oh so many interesting ripples and exposing the pale, hairless underside of his arm. A slightly raised and puckered scar ran 6 inches underlining his bulging triceps, “was stitched up by Lord Tywin’s finest physician. I got it stepping between Cersie and some raving lunatic screaming about a dead sister. It ought to give you a pretty good idea of what to do.”

Sansa leaned in ostensively to examine the stitching. “Why can’t I see the prettiest one?” Sansa asked mostly for something to do with her mouth as her eyes devoured his flesh.

“Because that one runs from flank to groin and is no fit sight for a lady.”

“And what if I told you that I can’t really tell what needs to be done from this little nick? That I need to see the other one.” Her eyes glided up his bare arm as her hand, or possibly even her tongue longed to do, to land on his dark gaze. His pupils were large with just a silver ring like the newest of moons. Sansa had no idea why, but seeing them blown like that made her nethers feel melty.

“I’d say you’re just trying to get me out of my clothes?” His tone was light, but his voice was low and seemed to vibrate through her lower abdomen. Sansa flushed with pleasure and a little embarrassment at getting caught. Sandor swallowed hard and cleared his throat apologetically. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t jest you like that.”

“Oh no please…don't stop.” Sansa put her hand on his arm mimicking his earlier attempt to press meaning into her. It was even hotter than she’d expected. “I like it…from you.” Her voice was high and breathless when she wanted so desperately to sound grown up and sophisticated.

Sandor moved smoothly out of her reach, but her nails lightly scathed his biceps, and she could see goosebumps rise on his skin. Her own arm and several other places tingled in sympathetic response. “Sansa when you say things like that, it gets a reaction from a man.”

His withdrawal felt like a slap in the face. “I am not a child anymore. You don’t need to explain these things to me anymore. I can see very plainly the reaction I am provoking.” Her gaze swept down purposefully to bulge in his breeches. “And it seems I provoke that reaction in many whether I will it or not. So please allow me to enjoy bestowing it upon the only person I really want to…jest with.”

“You can’t mean what you are saying,” he growled pleadingly.

“And why not? You think I’m too stupid to know my own mind?” Sansa could hear the petulance in her voice, and she loathed it.

“I do if you’ve a mind to set your fancy on me.” He snarled.

“And why not?” She asked rhetorically. Sansa was offended by his words on her own behalf, but also on his. Suddenly this conversation felt very familiar. He was trying to scare her off again. _I am no longer a helpless child,_ and I will not scare so easily, she thought. She took a deep breath and softened her tone. “You are one of the only men who has ever respected my consent. You are strong, exceedingly well made, and you want me for myself, not my position.”

“I’m also old, scarred, and an asshole,” Sandor countered gruffly.

“Believe me when I say that I have been offered far older husbands, and though you are being an asshole at the moment I do not think that is the defining aspect of your personality any longer,” Sansa stated primly.

He barked and ugly chuckle. “Funny you don’t have a peep to say about the scars.”

“No, I can’t say anything about scars,” she agreed brokenly. Bitter tears of abject regret and sorrow welled up and spilled down over her cheeks.

###

Sansa’s tears dissolved Sandor’s anger like sweets in the rain. They had a similar softening effect on his cock for which he was profoundly grateful. “Little Bird don’t cry. Tease me, use me however you want only don’t cry. Seeing your tears is like feeling them drop into an open chest wound.”

Sansa nodded, but the tears would not stop. She busied herself with taking some things out of her pack. Silence reigned as Sandor searched his suddenly empty skull for a way to fix what he had just smashed to pieces. He was so deep in his self-flagellations that he jumped at the sudden clanking of metal on metal from within the simmering basin. Sansa gave a little sniff and wiped her eyes. She plucked the cloak from the footboard and let it fall to a heap on the floor. Sansa then took a small porcelain cup and dipped it in the cauldron Payne brought. Next, she poured water over one slender white hand, then the other. She rubbed a lavender smelling soap between, then repeated the process. Both times she let the excess water drizzle onto the cloak at their feet. Sandor continued to track her movements as Sansa deftly fished her needle and thread out of the water. A fine aura of mist swirled from both and Sandor steeled himself against the coming pain. “May I see your arm again, please,” Sansa asked.

Sandor had been so focused on her hands that he hadn’t noticed she'd donned her Kings Landing mask. Seeing it made his skin crawl, but he couldn’t begrudge her the shield from the newest horror being visited on her, this time by him. He pushed up his sleeve again. This time Sansa assessed his scar without licking her lips or panting. Though his face would undoubtedly benefit from her second look, he’d much preferred the first one even if he had growled at her about it. He'd never seen anything as exquisite as the lustful look in those Tully blues, but Sandor couldn't believe that look was for him so he'd growled at her.

After giving his arm a lengthy appraisal, Sansa nodded to herself and then looked up to his face. Even though he was sitting down and she was standing the height of the raised bed made him several inches taller than her. Her eyes were beautiful and unreachable like the winter sky. “Spread your legs, please.” He startled a bit at the wording of her imperious command but complied. She came to stand between them, and his heart began to hammer blood right down into stupid cock. Sansa's left hand came up to cradle his face gently and angled it to grant her the best light and access. There was a flash as light glinted off the needle and then he closed his eyes. Her cool, smooth mask hurt him took at.

Sandor had been stitched up many times. Depending on how drunk he was either when the injury occurred and when it was stitched up, sometimes the stitching could be far worse than the actual wounding. This time though all he felt was a light tugging. It seemed to go on forever, but that might have been a function of his sobriety as well. He opened his eyes when the tugging stopped to find that Sansa’s face was so close to his that could feel her breath on his lips. It reminded him of how she’d kissed him last night. He longed to feel that bliss again, but he feared that she did not want _him_. That was why he had been such an ass a moment ago. He was not the knight that she apparently still wanted though the smell of her arousal earlier when she had been leering at his arm had brought him very close to not giving a fuck about that or anything else. “What do you see Little Bird?”

As if the nickname triggered something in her, the Kings Landing mask melted as her eyes focused on his. Strain crinkled her brow, but something else tilted her lips up. “Someone strong, brave and kind.”

Sandor made a show of looking behind him. After seeing her don the mask, he felt compelled to coax a that budding smile into full bloom. He'd turn a gods damn cartwheel if he had to. “Where the hells is that fucker. The only one here besides you cowers from fire and yells at young women. Or have a suddenly sprouted a mirror on my forehead?” he asked groping his forehead like a bloody fucking fool.

He got what he'd sought as she smiled big enough to see a glimmer of her sharp white teeth. That was a full blown smile, for true.

“I see someone who is strong enough to wrestle his demons and a dragon, brave enough to confess his sins and kind enough to care for a grieving girl. But speaking of mirrors,” she said reaching into her pack. Sandor tried to move to stop her, muttering something about how mirrors where not his friend, but Sansa had already turned the bloody thing to face him. He was unprepared for the visage that greeted him. He was very good at avoiding reflective surfaces and since he was no longer required to shave he hadn’t had a good look at his face in a long time. It’s not that the scars had actually lessened, half his face was a twisted ruin, but it didn’t seem like such a big deal anymore. And now that twisted ruin was bisected by a thin curving cut that sliced up toward his eye. It was sewn neatly shut with small perfectly spaced stitches that he would never forget being done by the pale, elegant hand of Sansa Stark. _I could look upon this every morning and marvel at the care she took._ He watched his face spasm up into a truly hideous grin that pulled at the stitches. He used years of schooling his face blank to wipe the smile off his face so as not to mar her work. “I’m so glad you are pleased,” Sansa said her voice rang with sincerity.

“You did the best you could with what you had. Now my prettiest scar covers my ugliest one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am loving watching them healing each other. What was your favorite part?


	18. Return Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Sansa's turn to confess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the fic of my heart. What I truly hope happens between Sansa and Sandor incase GRRM kicks the bucket or just gets it wrong. I hope to have it done by April when the show starts back up. However real life has shifted me out of the mind set I was in when I started this fic. I have not other choice but to be where I am right now, but I don't want to taint what I am trying to do with this fic, with the darkness I am currently in. I found this mostly done chapter to I finished it up and offer it to you, with my hopes to be back at this after the holidays.

I see someone who is strong enough to wrestle his demons and a dragon, brave enough to confess his sins and kind enough to care for a grieving girl.” She held up the mirror for him and watched as a real smile free of self-loathing spread across his face for the first time that she'd ever seen. It was not conventionally attractive at all. Perhaps it was a little scary even, but it moved Sansa's heart like nothing she'd ever experienced.

“You did the best you could with what you had,” he said gruffly. “Now my prettiest scar covers my ugliest one.” His steely gaze moved from the glass to her and a frisson of intensity passed between them. Sansa found that she could not hold his eyes. Not after all the ways she had used him. It was time to confess, but she didn't know how to begin.

Sansa left Sandor on the bed holding the mirror and began cleaning up the cabin. She used her soggy torn cloak to remove the wash basin from the brazier. She used a dry corner to wipe down all her sewing implements and put them away neatly. Once finished, Sansa moved to the porthole and flipped it open. Taking a firm, careful grip on the precious garment, she held it out over the cold ocean and twisted so that all the excess water and blood could return to the sea. She felt Sandor’s eyes on her as she moved one of the chairs close to the brazier and spread the damp cloak where it would dry fastest. Only a little less than half of it had been torn away from where Sansa had fashioned it into a hood. She’d be able to make something out of it. She was good at that by now. "I am very glad you brought some of this cloak back. Maybe it can help with my confession,” Sansa said to the vicinity of the chair.

“What could you possibly have to confess?” disbelieving laughter tinged Sandor words, and she was more than a little irritated by it.

“You'd be surprised,” Sansa said, turning to face Sandor anger heating her face. She brought low her entire family once and herself countless times by trusting the wrong people. _But this isn't about that,_ she told herself. _This is about they ways that I have wronged him._ Out loud she said, “This cloak started out white.” He continued to regard her with his steady gray gaze a sardonic twist to the unburnt side of his mouth giving away his amusement and something else... _pride maybe._ She wasn’t sure. This was another new expression on him. _No that is not quite right._ She’d seen his features arranged like this when he’d crowned her queen of love and beauty, but now his eyes no longer burned with rage and so she was drawn to him instead of recoiling. A lot of the anger leeched from her with that realization. "You knew!” she exclaimed. 

“Aye well, when I noticed Snow's cloak was cut at the edges like mine used to be after you returned it, I asked him about it. He said it was something your mum used to do to your Da's cloaks so he'd come back safe to her. You'd done the same for him, for good luck or some such,” he shrugged as if it was no big deal, but his voice was huskier than usual.

"Luck doesn't make itself," Sansa said unable to smoother the derisive laugh that bubbled up from her throat, as she turned back to the cloak. “Jon’s is a little different, though,” she said, picking up the hem and turning to show Sandor. “His curves at the corner. It lets other women know that he has a sister who cares for him and would mourn his loss. This cloak,” she traced her index finger around the curving hem to where it turned in sharply at the corner, “let's other women know that the man wearing it is spoken for by a woman who knows how to wield a needle well. All the women that see it and know it for true help that man in any way that they can so he'll get back to the woman that cares enough about him to mark him in such a way.” Sansa looked up from the cloak to fix her gaze upon Sandor.

###

Sandor's heart hitched. "But you stitched that back in Kings Landing," was all he could push past his throat constricted by an emotion he didn't even know how to name.

"You used it to cover my nakedness, my shame," she replied simply. Her azure eyes were so direct he felt pierced by them.

“Aye, but then I...I was not a good man," he grated out.

“You were good enough not to leer at me and beat me. And if you...used images of me in your mind...to stave off loneliness..." she trailed off blushing no doubt embarrassed by what he had confessed earlier.

“Don't sugar coat it. If you're so worldly now, you know what I was doing with those 'images' you are chirping about." This time he refused to look away from her. He would face her disgust head on. He saw instead that her pupils were blown out, yawning so wide he felt like he could dive right into them. His dick was instantly hard, and he wanted badly to thrust into something warm and wet. When her little pink tongue darted out to lick that plump growled lip, he growled.

She blinked up at him as if coming back to herself. "I have done the same with images of you while wrapped up in this very cloak."

At first, Sandor thought that the beat of his heart must have drowned out a "not" somewhere in that statement. Her furious blush let him know that was probably not the case. He stood from his seat on the bed closing the distance between them in one stride. When he reached her, Sandor buried his hand in her hair, tangled a fistful of it and twisted her head to the side pushing his nose into the crook of her neck and breathed deeply. _No lies, more than a little lust. Fuck me, the little bird's been fucking herself thinking of me._ He could not help the huge grin the spread up his face even though he knew it did no favors to his looks. Sansa gasped audibly and he tried to pull away, sure that he had just scandalized her beyond what she could handle. To his surprise she clung to his neck with enough force to push him off balance. He wrapped his arms around her and took a stumbling step back to the bed where he collapsed with her sprawled on top of him. Sansa gasped again when she came into contact with his cockstand. He waited stiffly to see what she would do and was rewarded when a wicked little grin etched her face. He wanted to lick every inch of her. “So is that it then? Your big sin is that you've been fucking y-" he stopped abruptly, and did his best to modify his language to suit a lady, "been pleasuring yourself thinking about the hired help."

Her fiery brows drew together, and her grin sizzled away like water thrown on a flame. _The Little Bird has a temper._ Sandor had known this to be the case since the day he stopped her throwing Joff off a battlement. "No, though I'd thank you for taking my sins as seriously as I took yours." Sansa arranged herself in less of a sprawl into more of a straddle, probably so that she could glare down at him. Sandor privately thought, as one almost always does, that his sins were so vile they must be taken seriously, but he wisely refrained from commenting, only nodding as he pushed himself up so that he could be eye to eye with her. "The part you will not like is that, in my mind, I made you out to be quite different than I knew you to be," she said this last to the furs upon the bed as though she could not bare to look at him.

"I've wished these scars away at time or two, believe that," Sander reassured her.

Her brow wrinkled again, and she brought her stunning eyes up to his again. "Oh no, I," her hand reached up to cup his face familiarly "never pretended that. I-" her voice faltered, and she ducked her scarlet face down so that her hair fell forward to hide her nearly incandescent shame. 

Sandor waited a long time to make sure she would not start back up on her own again. When she didn't, he put a finger beneath her chin and applied a bit of pressure while dipping his own head in an attempt to catch her eye again. "Little Bird, if you’re about to tell me that you wished this ugly old head onto Sir Loras' mincing frame I might have to turn you over my knee." To his utter astonishment, something in his statement made her buck forward against his swollen cock. He was a little deflated by that but figured he couldn't blame her after all the ways he pictured her.

"No Sandor. I pretended that," she swallowed hard before squaring her shoulders and looking him right in the eye. "I pretended that you cared for me. Like in the songs," she let out a strained little laugh. "It was silly and stupid, I know. And I knew that you'd be mad and yell if you knew. But you see, I _needed_ to feel like I had a secret weapon. Like there was something big and mean in up my sleeve that I was just waiting to unleash. I needed a shield to protect my mind, while my body was...was being ravished. I became especially bad about it once Petyr told me you were dead. Before that, I had some sort of restraint thinking of the shame I would feel when next I had to look you in the eye. I guess I always felt that I would see you again. But after Petyr told me you'd been burnt at the stake, I had nightmares for weeks about how awful that must have been for you. Petyr left me alone for a while, but soon enough came slinking up behind me fondling my" her eyes swept down to her lovely teats "or making me sit on his lap and call him Daddy. That is when I really let my imagination go. I pretended that you were someplace far away plotting a way back to me."

Sandor's insides were such a boiling mess that he hardly trusted himself to answer her. He took a couple of deep breaths as she watched him intently. His heart was rent by the look of cautious concern he saw writ clearly upon her lovely features. "Little Bird," he rasped as gently as he knew how "Why do you think I'm here?"

"To help Jon fight the war against the dead," Sansa answered matter of factly.

"Now you're making me into something I'm not."

"Well I could tell that you were carrying some guilt that you wanted to get off your chest-" he stopped her peeping by laying two fingers not ungently against her soft petal lips.

"Stop your chirping. You are forgiven for thinking the best of me," he ground out. "You are not stupid and fuck me sideways with a red hot poker for a shitfaced son of a bitch for ever putting that lie into your head. And I like it that you can sometimes be silly, and I am fucking _honored_ that you used the thought of me as a shield for your mind when my real head was up my ass thousands of leagues away. I may never forgive mys-" it was her turn to cover his mouth.

They sat for a long moment physically barring each other from speech while saying everything with their eyes. Sandor cocked a brow. Sansa pulled back a bit so that his fingertips trailed over her top lip, but caught on her bottom. Then she darted that clever little tongue out to flick the tips of his digits. He groaned against her hand his hot tongue swiping across her palm. She gasped, he hoped in pleasure, and then sucked his fingers into her mouth.

The sight of her cheeks hollowed out, and her plump lips around his fingers made him almost lose his head. He lunged for her, and she made a little squawking noise as he pinned her to the bed.

"Sandor," she said breathily. There was something different about her voice, and her eyes were wide. He ground the bulge in his breeches against her soft thigh. He tried to thrust his nose in the juncture of her neck and shoulder, but she'd put her hand up. Sandor had just enough sanity to register this and pull the upper half of his body off her. He looked down to see fear writ large across her wide-eyed face. He removed every part of himself from her retreating from the bed to stand dragging deep breaths through his nose and pushing them out his mouth. Her fear was akin to an icy bucket of water thrown over his head. Looking down upon it, he closed his eyes against the sight of Sansa rolled up on the bed facing away from him with her fist clenched tight and her teeth digging into her hand to stave off wounded little noises that were nevertheless escaping.

Sandor wanted nothing so much as to slink off to the hold and spend some quality time with the undead while questioning his life choices and beating his head against the hull of the ship. The old him would have taken a few skins of sour red to that pity party and called it a typical Cronesday night. _You're a man, not a dog. Act like it,_ he told himself. Out loud he said "Little Bird," as softly as he knew how. "I'm sorry. Can I do anything for you? A blanket?" Fuck he hated himself right now. She'd just been playing around, and he'd gone and jumped on her again, just like the dirty old dog he was.

A deep shuddering breath from the bed brought his attention back to Sansa. "It's fine. I'm fine. I'm sorry." She was pulling herself to a sitting position, tears coursing down her face and neck.

"Don't apologize, Little Bird. I am the one who lost control of myself. I should be begging your pardon. If you want me to, I'll go."

"No please don't go. You more spooked me than scared me. I don't take surprises well, anymore. And then when you were above me...I forgot where I was for a moment.” Her words wrung his heart. He knelt quickly by the bed so that he would not loom over her and that made her smile. "It wasn't you. It was me," she said rolling over so that she could continue to look at him off the edge of the bed.

"Have you considered," Sandor said gently "that you might not be ready for this? Not trying to tell you, your own mind. Just saying that I’ll wait for you til the wall falls."

Sansa looked up at him with eyes so intensely blue that he was reminded of that which she was about to speak. "There is a dead thing in the hold of this ship and we, you the former Lannister dog, currently off the chain and I, the Lannister runaway bride are sailing toward King's Landing. I would bet my sewing kit that we stop at Dragonstone to pick Tyrion up." At her words, a rippling growl crept up Sandor’s throat. Sansa squeezed the hand she held. "He was good to me. Our marriage was not consummated. But I do not think the Queen likes me. I think she would like to tuck me away somewhere my...weakness does not reflect upon her. If that were to happen," he tried to protest, but she stared him silent. "If that were to happen I would want to know I did something once that I wanted to do, with someone who wanted me for myself."

"That's a fine thing little bird, but I won't take a curled ball. I don't think I'm able even though you are willing." Sandor knew that once upon a time, he would have taken her any way he could've gotten her, but he hoped he'd changed enough, so that he had not made a liar of himself.

Another warm smile bloomed on her face, and more tears fell. It was like seeing summer and winter on the same day. "That is exactly why I want you so badly," she rose up so that she was on her knees upon the bed which pulled him out of his kneeling position and onto the bed. "I think this we can make this work, if you let me stay on top."

Sandor's cock was pretty sure that it had never heard a better idea in all it's long and sorted life. Sandor, the man, gathered Sansa up, lowering his face to hers hoping she’d kiss him again, when a knock sounded at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After final edits I am actually quite pleased by how this turned out. Who do you think is at the door? Also once again I am not super into the title of this chapter. I'm open to suggestions.


	19. Divide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out who was at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was very hard to write. I started it half a dozen times. I am not sure if I am just not used to writing from Dany's POV or I was not excited about the out come, but it was a struggle.

Dany swept past a quaking Podrick Payne into a room so charged with emotion she could feel the hairs on her arms rise beneath the fur lined velvet she wore to ward off the chill of the winter sea. Sansa was standing still as a statue, but her skirts were still swaying in the wake of someone’s movement, and Sandor Clegane was standing a strange distance from her, a needle hanging from his face flicking light around the room as it dangled in a ray of chill sunlight streaming in from the porthole. “I demand to know the meaning of this!” Dany hurled a lump of slagged silver onto the fur strewn bed directly in front of Sansa.  
The slightly younger woman reached out a pale hand and retrieved the sad and tarnished lump. “I don’t know, Your Grace,” came a small cold voice tinged faintly with the same icy consonants that made Dany’s ears tingle when they came from Jon’s lips. She was not best pleased with them now.  
“I’ll give you a hint. I found it lodged on the inside of Drogon’s mouth,” Dany jabbed at the small needle-like tine, heedless that her gesture caused the sharp point to puncture Sansa’s skin. The other woman gasped as a ruby bead formed. Faster than Dany would have believed possible for such a big man Sandor Clegane tucked Sansa neatly behind him. He did so without making physical contact with Dany or making any threatening gestures toward her, but Dany felt waves of menace pour off the large scarred man. The unburnt side of his face was the picture of the consummate guardsman. “I was speaking to Lady Sansa,” Dany informed him.  
“Speak all you like,” his voice was raw and rough, “but no one hurts her. And if you’re wondering how something ended up in your dragon’s throat, you’ll probably want to speak to me, or the man at your back.” Dany did not have to glance over her shoulder to know that Jon had entered the room behind her. Ever since he had ridden Rhegal, Dany just knew where he was.   
“What do you have to say for yourself, then?” Dany took a step toward the now bare wall so that she could easily keep both men in sight. As an add bonus the new angle allowed her a glimpse of Sansa who was huddled in on herself.  
“I was following orders,” Clegane replied glaring over her shoulder.  
“Well?” she invited Jon to speak.   
“Sansa was in danger,” he stated simply, his dark eyes willing her to believe his actions were necessary.  
“Lord Baelish claims that he and his men were only walking down the corridor outside her door,” Dany countered, trying not to be drawn in by feeling shining from his dark eyes. It wasn’t for her; it was for his frail, half-mad sister. She couldn’t be jealous of his protective streak. She didn’t need his protection; she had her dragons. Even if there were only two now.  
“Where they had no business. I warned him not to come near her more than once,” Jon's voice was heating now, and she refused to be affected by the intensity of it.  
“I offered him the hospitality of this vessel. You do not have the authority to set conditions on that hospitality.” Dany declaimed. She and Jon had had several tender moments, but she’d be damned if she ceded any of her power to him. Or allow him to sway her with sentiment. That is not how Queens ruled.  
“I have a duty to keep my sister safe,” Jon argued.  
“She is the one who brought this supposedly dangerous man aboard my ship. She traveled with him alone. Surely if he meant to do her harm, the damage has been done.” Dany cut her eyes to what little could be seen of the hunched form. As she spoke, a strangled whimper sounded from behind the large scarred warrior. His face transformed from the stone guard to a man on fire with torment as he turned completely blocking Dany's view once more. After a brief exchange of murmurs, Sansa emerged from behind her wall of muscle.  
The other woman looked haunted. The fresh flush Dany had noted upon entering the room had grayed, and her lips all but disappeared in a sallow ivory pallor. “Petyr Baelish has hurt me, often in the past. But he is not the most recent one to do so. In an effort not to go mad, I put up walls around the memories I was not ready to face. Now that I feel safe enough to do so,” Sansa paused, and it seemed to Dany as if her midnight blue eyes were drawn to Clegane like a lodestone, “perhaps it is time for me to do so.”  
“Perhaps it is,” Dany allowed. A well of compassion for the apparent rawness of Sansa’s feelings pushed back Dany’s disgust at the other woman’s weakness, “but in the meantime, Lord Baelish demands justice for his slain retainers.” Dany informed the room.  
“Cunts he hired last minute in a bar,” scoffed Clegane. “What blood price does he have in mind?”  
“He would see you pull an oar for the rest of the voyage.” Dany met his steely gaze. To his credit, Clegane did not flinch. In fact, he returned her gaze steadily with apparent acceptance.   
“He would deprive Sansa of a protector,” Jon asserted.  
“Sandor Clegane is a Stark man. He was following orders.” Sansa stated. Her voice was no longer small or wounded. It was still cold though.  
Dany raised one silvery brow. “And yet I have heard, from my hand, that Sandor Clegane has never sworn an oath, nor will he.”  
“Sandor Clegane is my man, and I take full responsibility for his actions,” Sansa reiterated icily. There was no way for Sansa to see the warrior's formidable chest swell, as she was standing in front of him her cold blue eyes locked on Dany. Dany, however, could not fail to notice.  
“Indeed. Well, I can scarcely have you pulling an oar.” Dany met Sansa’s gaze directly. “What would you suggest, to satisfy Lord Baelish’s outrage?”   
“I have noticed no other women aboard this ship. I could serve as Your Grace's handmaiden until the journey south has ended,” Sansa suggested. The red head's voice melted into the exact blend of pleasant subservience that a queen would seek in a handmaid.   
Dany was surprised as she’d not expected Sansa to have an answer, nor be able to change her demeanor so swiftly. The queen considered the proposal carefully. It was a harmless way of allowing Baelish to believe some action had been taken on his behalf while keeping Sansa close. “Done,” Dany agreed. Sansa did bare watching. The fiery-haired woman had a changeable aspect, and Dany suddenly felt that understanding her was the key to the North even more so than Jon Snow. The Queen angled her head up to fix her gaze on Sandor Clegane. “Handmaids do not require guards, so you will have to employ your time aboard ship in other ways than standing outside my door.” Dany then turned to Jon. “I assure you, your sister will be safe in my care. You may assign these ‘Stark men’” Dany included Pod whom she could only see the narrowest sliver of standing at attention outside of the open door, with a wave of her hand, “where you feel they are needed. I will require Sir Jorah in my guard rotation so you may consider stationing them near the cargo we won so dearly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think about the Dany POV? How did you find my characterization? I am not fully happy with it, so I am really inviting specific ways to make it more "Dany."


	20. What Lies Beneath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa realises that there must be complete honesty between she and Sandor or they will keep falling into old patterns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to take a look inside a character's head to take their emotional temperature every now and then. It helps to show how their mind set is changing or not changing as the case may be. Also I like when one character reminisces about something that happened while they are not the POV. I feel like it helps the reader understand the affects of scenes on different people. There is a lot of that going on in this chapter.

Sansa was settling her things into Daenerys’s cabin and generally tidying up. If Jon's cabin had been well appointed, this one was down right sumptuous. It still had all it's wall hangings for one. The furniture was even more grand and there gorgeous rugs upon the wooden planks.

As Sansa ran through the motions of her new, but not so new role as a handmaiden, she felt the persona of Alayne Stone begin to creep up on her. Sansa fought this. She could not go back to that divided half-life that Petyr Baelish had forced upon her, while he hid her in the Vale. She told the queen that it might be time to recover those memories, but Sansa would not if it meant being Alayne again. Just the thought of doing so opened a yawning emptiness, and Sansa clutched at the footboard of the massive bed that dominated one side of the Queen’s cabin. For a moment Sansa could feel Petyr’s hands all over her, could feel his minty breath on her neck, feared that he would push her into the emptiness. Sansa shook her head and took some deep, slow breaths as she had seen Sandor doing earlier today. “I am safe here,” she stated.

It was true enough. Petyr Baelish was on this ship with her, but in this moment she was safe. Sansa knew she needed to practice living in the moment. Gratitude is the antidote to worry Septa Mordain used to say. Sansa began very deliberately listing the positive things she had experienced while being a handmaid. Being thought a bastard had not been all bad. In fact, it had gifted Sansa with a perspective from both sides of the blanket, so to speak. Not many people got to truly experience that. Sansa knew that made her a better person and hoped it made her a better ruler. Caring for Robert Aryn, though trying at times, had not been truly hard. And serving as Miranda Royce’s handmaiden had been fun. Randa and Mrya had been the only friends she’d ever known, besides Jeyne Poole. Though Sansa was forced to admit that she had not been a very good friend to Jeyne. And could the Vale girls really be considered friends when they didn’t even know Sansa’s real name?

Has anyone ever truly known me? Sansa wondered. Her siblings surely knew all there was to know about her from a young age. She’d shared a room and a bed with Arya for many years and so had no secrets from the castle, as Arya had been quite talkative when she was young. “Sansa is afraid of ghosts,” and “Sansa’s in love with the singer,” were just two of the secrets that Arya decried all over the castle. When Sansa was ten, she’d pleaded for her own rooms, and her mother had answered those prayers, saying that a Lady needs her own space to grow into herself. Sansa had been quite happy in her own rooms. And of course she’d loved her brothers, but she’d not roughhoused with them as Arya did. She’d tended baby Rickon like he was a living doll, but once he’d reached the age when he didn’t like to be carried anymore, Sansa lost interest in the day to day doings of her wild little brother.

Sansa could feel herself start to spiral down into despair as she straightened the furs on Daenerys’s bed. _There is a positive here,_ she told herself. Sansa closed her eyes as her fingers slid through the soft rabbit hair.

 _Lady knew me._ Her wolf’s bright yellow eyes had pierced her veneer of good manners and embroidered a primal print upon Sansa’s soul. In turn, the wolf had been influenced by Sansa’s refined nature. The two together had made a balanced whole. Sansa had felt a completeness with Lady by her side that she’d never known was lacking until the day her father had killed her wolf. He’d done it himself out of respect for both Lady and herself, Sansa knew that now. The spoiled girl who had held a grudge could never understand. But that girl was dead now. She’d been beaten to death in Kings Landing.

Sansa pressed her cheek to the furs for a moment and wished she could feel the ghost of her wolf as well as she could the ghost of the girl who could never have survived the King’s Court. The door opened behind her, and Sansa turned to face the Dragon Queen as she entered the cabin. The small blond woman looked drawn and tired. Sansa bobbed a delicate curtsey and asked if her grace would like dinner or a bath.

“I suppose since you are here to make sure I don’t drown, I’ll have both,” Dany replied with a tentative smile.

“Which would you like first?” Sansa inquired politely.

“Why don’t you order them both and I will take them as they come,” Dany said, sinking into a deeply cushioned chair.

Sansa slipped out with a “yes, your grace” and went to go find Pod. She herself had no idea what facilities were like on the ship, but she was sure that Pod would know.

 

 

Sansa followed her nose toward the ship’s galley thinking that the most likely place to find Pod at supper time. She had taken some time to eat before gathering her things from Jon's cabin. It had been a short lonely luncheon as Jon had ordered Sandor and Pod to the hold to “look after our guest from the North” as soon as Sansa had retrieved her needle from the thread hanging from Sandor’s face.

She'd blushed and fretted as she did so thinking of how either one of them might have been stabbed by that needle while they were--Sansa was not even sure how to categorize what they had been doing--and yet she had not noticed the sharp implement at the time. Sansa supposed she’d been too busy staring into Sandor’s eyes or sucking on his fingers. Gods what had compelled her to do that? Whatever the inspiration, it had indeed been gods sent. Thinking about it as she snipped and tied off the stitches she'd put in his face made her all squirmy as she had been when she was straddling him.

It didn't help that all during the needle retrieval, Sandor had kept his eyes on hers as she worked. Sansa longed to meet his gaze, and just linger there, but she needed her eyes for her work, and she could feel Jon’s and Pod’s gazes upon them both. While the other two men in the room were not quite disapproving, Sansa did not care for their scrutiny while such intimate thoughts roamed her mind, and so worked as fast as she could. Still, she longed to communicate something of her joy to Sandor, so she’d hummed the mother’s hymn and allowed herself to delight in touching him while she had the excuse to do so.

Sansa was amazed by how enthralled she’d been by Sandor’s touch. So much so that she walked right past the galley toward the shaft where a ladder led both up to the main deck and down to the ship’s hold. Blissfully unaware she continued to muse. While she had certainly learned to enjoy her own touch, Sansa had never thought a man’s touch would excite her as her previous encounters with such stimuli had been negative. Sandor had not really even touched her that much. Not with his hands. His words though…no man had ever spoken to her as Sandor had. Both in Kings Landing and here on the ship. He was so different now, though still huge, solid, and scarred, his eyes were a softer gray rather than sparking silver with rage all the time. Feeling that he might have found some peace in the time they were apart made her inexplicably happy. Hearing his confession and making one of her own lifted a weight from her heart so that she feared if she went above decks she might just float away. _And I don’t want any sort of distance between us,_ she thought. “Just yesterday, I thought him dead,” she said softly to herself as she grasped ladder to the hold below, “and today…” her voice drifted off as she imagined what might have happened if an angry queen had not knocked on their door, all the while clinging to the ladder. Sansa's face flooded with color. _I’m pretty sure I asked him to bed me_ , she thought. _And I think he said he would as long as I didn’t act like a scared child._

“What about today, Little Bird,” As if her thoughts had conjured the man, the rasping of his voice came from below her and Sansa quickly stepped back from the ladder as Sandor’s head emerged from below decks. He was not wearing his armor, and his linen under-tunic clung to the damp skin beneath it in such a way that made the play of his muscles as he hauled his huge body up the ladder quite plan. Sansa’s mouth flooded with saliva and she could not take her eyes off the spectacle.

“What?” she said stupidly.

###

Sandor had finally finished scrubbing the blood from his body and putting on his cleanest clothes, before deciding to take a stroll past the Queen’s cabin. Pod was watching the dead fucker. It really only took one man to stare at a box and Snow had told them to work out a watch they were both comfortable with. If that bitchy little blond gave him shit about handmaids not needing guards, he’d come up with some excuse to be there, or not. He’d found that one of the only perks to having your face half melted off is that you don’t have to explain yourself very often. Or maybe it was the giant sword he carried. Even out of his armor he went armed.

He’d begun to climb the ladder when he heard chirping and looked up to see one of the finest sights of his life. Mile-long legs clad in gray wool stockings topped by bright blue bows. Above that, an expanse of creamy naked thigh swelled into the loveliest rounded ass clad in pretty pink panties. By the length of leg that lower half could only belong to Sansa Stark. He may have taken a moment to admire the view before speaking. When he did, there was a swirl of skirts, wafting her scent down around him, and the ladder cleared for him to mount.

“As I was coming up the ladder, I could hear you talking, so I looked up. Couldn't help but admire your delicious shanks,” He wiggled his brow at her as he turned from the ladder. Sansa was standing pale and still a few feet away. The tightness of her features belied the lush fragrance of her. She took another step back from him drawing her skirts close to her legs as if that could somehow take away what he’d already seen. He was confused, which seemed to be the state he was doomed to occupy in her company. It was not a state Sandor enjoyed. For a moment he hearkened back to a simpler, angrier time where everything was black or white, fuck or fight. “Dammit girl, don’t look at me like I’m some filthy peeper, you were the one standing around on a ladder in a ship full of fuck-starved sailors.” She flinched, and her lip trembled. It felt like she’d ripped the stitches out of his face. “For fuck's sake, a couple of hours ago you were begging me to split your quim, and now you are looking at me like I’m the asshole for peeking up your skirt. I feel like I never get the same woman twice when I come into your presence.” Tears spilled down her face.

Sandor couldn’t bear to look at her pain when he knew he’d inflicted it. He turned from her. There was a delicate sniff, and then a faint, “Wait.” Sandor turned scowling.

“You look...clean. I am looking—that is, the Queen would like a bath. Do you know…”

That was a stammer worthy of Payne. Sandor realized how rattled Sansa must be. _Of course she is with this stupid dog and his slobbery nose practically up her ass._ “Aye,” he barked. “I’ll go fetch the tub and send Payne to the galley for boiling water.”

“Thank you,” came the chilly but gracious reply. “No need to send Podrick. The Queen would also like her dinner, and I am headed to the galley now. I can order the hot water.”

Complete sentences along with pleasantries, that sounded more like his little bird. Sandor risked a glance back at her. His heart froze to see her King’s Landing mask firmly in place. _What the fuck do you expect when you bark at her like that, dog._ It crossed his mind to bark again, but instead, he took a deep breath, as Elder Brother had taught him. “Sansa, I am sorry. I should not have spoken to you like that. Your fear threw me off guard, and that turns me mean. I was angry at myself for hurting you.” He turned back toward the ladder. Elder Brother had also taught him that it is a waste of time waiting for forgiveness to come from someone else. Forgiving himself was always the most significant challenge anyway.

“Sandor wait.” Her voice was still cool. He stopped with one foot on the rungs but did not turn. “It was my fault,” her trembling voice sent a shiver of pain through his chest.

“No, Little Bird. You should be able to walk this ship stark naked and still feel safe. It was my bloody fault for leering uninvited. I’m not surprised you changed your mind about sharing yourself with me. Just hurts having something so fine wrenched away. After what I said, following on the heels of my earlier apology...I understand. We don't need to speak of it again.” He wanted nothing so much as the darkness of the hold to hide the depth of his pain and disappointment. He’d send the boy up with the tub.

“No please,” her voice sounded wet, and he heard her skirts rustle. Sandor turned to find her tears flowing like rivers from her Tully blues. She reached out and stopped just short of touching him. “I’ve been keeping one last thing from you, and it is the cause of this misunderstanding. I want to share myself with you, but I can’t keep the queen waiting. Will you meet me later, please?”

“Aye Little Bird. I can’t deny you anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I teared up writing the bit wear Sandor thinks she doesn't want him anymore. I didn't realize that would still be such a soft spot for my version of Sandor.


	21. Coming Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor compare scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for this chapter
> 
>  
> 
> There are some graphic descriptions of the evidence of Ramsy's cruelty. I have marked them with asterisks (***...***) so that those who might be affected by the description might skip those passages.

Coming Clean  
Sansa was nearly to the door of the queen’s cabin when she registered the steady thudding behind her was not just her leaden heart. One of the dark, dangerous foreign men that the Queen referred to as a blood rider sought permission for Sansa to enter. An affirmative from Daenerys and the door swung wide. Though her arms were full of a huge tray of food, Sansa took that moment to glance behind her.  
Pod looked rather like a turtle with a huge copper tub balanced on his back. Jon went before him, covered soup kettles swinging from each hand. Bringing up the rear with the heavy tread that Sansa had mistaken for her own heart was Sandor a yoke across his broad shoulders. From each side, a great laundry kettle depended, ponderously. For a moment all Sansa could do was stare. He didn’t even appear to be straining under the enormous weight.  
As they came even with her, Jon cleared his throat and quirked a brow and Sansa realized she’d been caught staring. Her face felt roughly the temperature of the water in the kettles as she scurried into the room.  
Looking down at the tray, Sansa was only saved from covering Daenerys in her own dinner by a very unqueenly squawk. “Look where your going. Are you being chased?”  
“I am so sorry, Your Grace,” Sansa said, skirting the queen adroitly, by whirling the tray away from her royal person. “I thought you would still be resting.” Sansa's momentum wound down right in front of the heavy-legged table where she set the tray.  
“I was, but the door stood open for so long I came to investigate."  
Sansa fought another blush. “In a manner, I was pursued, Your Grace. But only by your bath.”   
“I would think a giant turtle would cause one to pick up her pace,” there was amusement in the Queen’s voice as she came to stand by Sansa, making way for a copper topped Pod.  
“Your Grace, where would you like the tub?” the squire inquired, his voice echoey.  
“By the brazier, please, Payne.” Pod complied with all alacrity and he quickly stepped out of the way as Sandor came in next with the giant kettles. “Ah now I understand,” Daenerys said quietly to Sansa as the huge warrior used mitted hands to dump the first kettle into the tub. “And I feared I was going to suffer a lukewarm bath,” the queen continued in her normal voice.  
“I would be happy to stand outside and wait to add more hot water, Your Grace,” Sandor offered in his rusty voice.  
Dany made a derisive noise through her nose. “I know that you would Clegane,” she said throwing a pointed look over her shoulder at the real reason Clegane wished to stand outside the Queen's door. Sansa was too busy watching Sandor pour the water to take note. “Dump in the other large kettle. Nothing burns the Dragon. Lord Snow, please set your kettles by the tub. My blood riders can refresh the water if needed.” Sansa did not miss Jon’s raised brow at this information. “Thank you all.”  
Pod and Jon both made appropriate replies to their Queen. Sandor, however, had been making his way over to Sansa since he’d stopped pouring. He used the cover of the other men’s pleasantries to rasp, “Be on duty all night in the hold.” And then he left with Jon and Pod. He hadn’t even looked at her — not one single time.

 

Sansa spent the evening feeding and washing the Queen. She had assumed Daenerys was bluffing about the water, but as soon as they were alone the blond, shed her clothing and stepped into the steaming tub groaning contentedly. It was fully fifteen minutes before the water was cool enough for Sansa to begin washing the Queen. Sansa spent that time feeding morsels of food to Daenerys in the tub. Even after the dinner interval the water was hotter than Sansa would prefer. She uncoiled Queen’s braids and thoroughly washed the silvery locks with amber scented soap.  
Once Sansa was done scrubbing Daenerys's back, the queen bid her to wash her soiled clothes. This was not something that Sansa had ever done. Certainly, Sansa had collected and transported soiled clothing, but never to wash them herself. There were laundresses for that in the Eyrie. “My blood riders will help you get enough water down to the hold when the guard changes.” The Queen’s lips crimped as she continued sardonically. “And Sansa, try to find a way to bathe. I do believe you still have blood in your hair,” and then she winked. Sansa could not be positive, as flickering candles often played tricks, but she would have sworn the blond winked.  
“Yes, my Queen.” Sansa dipped a curtsy before stooping to collect the Queen’s clothing.  
“There is more in my pack,” Dany informed her.  
“Shall I just take the whole thing?” Sansa asked.  
“Leave me the cleanest shift. It might take you a while if it is your first time...doing laundry.”  
“Yes, your grace.”  
Sansa summoned the blood riders, who came in and began circulating water. As Sansa quickly sorted through the Queen’s pack, she observed that neither man took any particular notice of his Queen’s nudity. Sansa was not sure how she felt about this, but she made note of it.  
As Sansa was surreptitiously picking up her own pack, Dany called, “I am sure I will be asleep before you come back. Try not to wake the Dragon.” _She heard; she knows,_ Sansa thought. _It's almost as if...she's helping me._

 

Sandor turned from his watch on the shrieking box when he heard thumps on the ladder rungs leading into the cargo hold. For the past couple of hours, he’d been the only living thing in the bowels of the ship, and though he was expecting Sansa, he couldn’t imagine her making that racket. There was only one lantern in the hold, and the shadows of crates and barrels yawned plenty deep enough to hide even a man of his size. He stepped into one of them to await, hand on hilt, whoever was coming down the ladder. The only sound in the hold was the rattling of death in its chains.  
Soon two of the Queen’s three blood riders were lowering down a laundry kettle that was full enough to slosh water at every tilt. He was just about to ask them what the fuck they were doing when familiar slippers and a green hem appeared at the top of the ladder. _If either of those fuckers looks up it’ll be the last thing they see,_ thought Sandor as he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.  
Sandor strode toward the ladder to take the kettle from the men whose handling of the huge pot was made awkward by the necessity of sharing the load while coming down a ladder. If it spilled his own things might get wet while most of his clothing could do with a bit of a wash, Sandor liked to choose his laundry day. The Dothraki nodded their thanks to him and cleared the ladder for Sansa to finish descending. Noticing her awkwardness, Sandor realized she was negotiating the ladder with two packs and moving with a stiffness that belied her usual grace. His instinct was to put the whole sad show out of its misery and pluck her off the ladder, but instead, he asked, “You want to pass me those packs or just bring you down?”  
Sansa started at the sound of his voice, and he silently cursed himself for being so gruff. “Um,” her voice trembled. “I can do it myself; I just really don’t like all of you standing so close where I can’t see you.”  
Sandor immediately took a giant step backward to give the Dothraki room to do the same. They remained where they were near the bottom of the ladder. Sansa continued to descend. Sandor wanted to lay into the blood riders with his sword but figured they just didn’t know enough of the common tongue to understand Sansa’s words. The horse warriors weren’t, after all, crowding her or trying to peek up her dress. Really, they looked impatient their eyes fixed on the quaking crate that contained his official charge. Sandor knocked his hilt against his leg to get their attention and made a swooping gesture with the hand, not on the grip of his sword to indicate that the men should back up. They scowled at him, and Sansa continued her to put one slender foot below another. Sandor made another pass with his arm from Sansa to behind him, “She’ll go quicker if you move back, you dumb cunts.” Their scowls entrenched more deeply into their faces, but they did step back a bit. The shorter of the men’s hands had fallen to the curved blade at his hip. “So, you do understand some of the common tongue, eh?” Sandor rasped matching them scowl for scowl.  
“You are not making this easier,” Sansa quavered. She was almost down.  
Sandor did not say anything else, but continued to glare.  
###  
Sansa stood at the base of the ladder for a moment breathing through her fear. Yes, there were men behind her. Some of them were not necessarily her allies, yet still, there was no danger. There came an impatient noise and words she did not know. She rocked sideways jarred by an unexpected shove. Then the Queen's blood riders were swarming up the ladder. Sandor, sword half bared, was striding forward with murder in his steely eyes. Sansa moved toward him without thinking and put her hand flat against his chest, “No.” She fancied she could feel the thunder of his heart beneath her palm.  
“He laid hands on you,” Sandor rasped and took a step sideways, clearly proceeding along the path of violence. “At the very least I should cut it off.”  
_Could Sandor know that I cannot bear to be touched by strange men, even in passing?_ Sansa balled her hand so that she had a handful of Sandor’s raw linen tunic clenched in her fist. “Sandor, please. He didn’t mean any harm by it. It makes them nervous being parted from Daenerys. What would you do if someone were standing between –” Sansa stopped herself an instant before saying us – “between you and your charge?” She tilted her head toward the shaking box. Sandor was looking down at her fist tangled in the fabric of his tunic. It was a long moment until Sansa could make herself release the material. As she smoothed the wrinkles out over his firm chest, she truly felt the gallop of his heart. Her breath was coming fast.  
“They can have the bloody bugger,” Sandor snarled. His voice was as ragged as his breathing, but he didn't sound angry. “But aye, I take your meaning. I—” He stepped back from her then so that her hand, slid down his chest, then his stomach before scraping the knot on his sword belt and falling to rest at her side. He swallowed audibly and took a deep breath. “I could see you standing there with your fear, battling. I wished they’d given you the time to win through.”  
“How do you know I would have won?” Sansa was warmed by his confidence in her.  
“If you’re standing on the other side of a battle, you won.”  
“Sometimes I’m not though. Standing, I mean. You saw me last night.” Sansa looked down hollowed by her shame. “You had to carry me off that battlefield.”  
A very hesitant touch under her chin reminded Sansa of the time he dabbed blood from her lip on the battlements of the Red Keep. She swept her eyes up to meet his and saw no pity. “I will carry you off a hundred more.” Though not quite a question his voice was as hesitant as his touch. _So this is Sandor Clegane now? The man who always spoke with abrupt authority._  
_No, not always._ He’d spoken to her several times in this new way. _I must allow him to change. And he must allow me to, as well._ Sansa covered the hand that was now cupping her face, her sensitive finger tips delighting in the springy hair on his knuckles. “Please only carry me away if I need it. We learn more from failure than we do from success sometimes.” His one brow tilted toward the bridge of his nose. “Hear me out. Just now when that man pushed me out of the way, I was exposed to something distasteful, something that scares me, being touched by a strange man. I would have avoided it if I could, but I couldn’t so it happened. And yet I survived. And what's more I didn't melt into a quivering mess. This is truly a win for me. If you’d started a fight over it, the queen would know, things would have escalated."  
He was quiet for a long time, his misty eyes locked on hers. Sansa was pleased to see the her stitches looked to be holding well. Finally he nodded. Sansa slanted her head so that the hand that cupped her face pushed deeper into her tresses. Sandor made an inarticulate noise at the back of his throat and drove his fingers further into the roiling mass. Sansa’s eyes slid shut in pleasure and she felt his other hand settle lightly on her waist.  
Sandor’s breath was hot on her lips, when her eyes flew open at a yanking sensation. “Maiden, Mother and Crone, Little Bird is that blood in your hair?” Sandor’s thundering chest was pressed against her face as he leaned over her shoulder to see what matted mess had caught his hand. Sansa cringed, and frustrated shame tears pricked her lids. _Does it get less lady-like than blood in your hair? And Dany warned me_. Sansa tried to back away, but Sandor had clamped an arm around her shoulders. She heard a sniffing sound. “Aye, that’s blood. How in the seven hells did you get blood your hair.”  
And then suddenly it was all too much. “How the hells should I know?” the curse burst from her and it felt good, so she tried some more. “I heard you wrestling that fucking dragon and tried help. Pod held me back, smearing blood all over me. Or maybe it was when we were…embracing and I got all that blood on my face. It’s been a bloody gods damned day.” The last came out in a choked sob. Sandor had an “oh gods no!” look on his face if ever she’d seen one. Just as suddenly the embarrassment of blood in her hair, compared with the rest of her day seemed ridiculous. “I don’t fucking know how it got there, but the Queen told me to get rid of before I come to bed. Also, on my list of things to do tonight before I sleep, is her dirty laundry.” Sansa laughed ruefully.  
###  
Sandor was quite taken aback by the Little Bird’s behavior. Hearing her curse made his dick hard. Seeing the tears gather in her vivid blue eyes made him panic. Her laughter made him bold. “Let’s start with your hair while the water is still warm,” he said, feeling like he wasn’t even in charge of his own fucking mouth anymore.  
Sansa looked up at him sharply, and her whole body went very still. Sandor braced for a scathing reply or another stinging slap. Instead, she took that plump pink lip between her teeth and reached for the laces of her gown. “That’s not what I meant. I’d be more than happy help you get the blood out of your hair without having to bathe in a laundry pot.”  
“No." Her voice was very firm. "This needs to happen, and after today, I’d like a bath anyway.” Her fingers plucked at her laces deftly, though he could see that her hands shook. Sandor turned to give her privacy. “No, please don’t turn away from me. I need you to see me." Those word struck a cord in Sandor that vibrated though his whole being. Sansa continued in softer sadder voice, "Though I fear it will be hard for you.”  
Sandor bit back a sarcastic reply involving his hardness and simply watched as Sansa shed her dress and shift all in one go so that she stood in a puddle of fabric in just her small clothes and the stockings he’d seen earlier that day. Though Sansa was in front of the only light source, enough of the wavering candle light leaked past her to discern the curve of breast and the flare of hip as she stood with her arms stiffly at her sides. _Gods she's the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on._ He wanted to lick her from head to heel and all the tips and bits between. Sandor swallowed trying to lubricate his unlovely voice, “Fuck me, you are even more glorious than I’d imagined.” The crack of her flesh against his as her hand connected with the good side of his face was nearly as shocking as her taking off her clothes. He had not seen it coming as his gaze caught on her bouncing tits when she raised her arm to strike. “Not that I’m complaining, but what the fuck did you do that for?” Sandor would have gladly taken a beating from several grown men with clubs as long as none of them got between him and Sansa’s naked form.  
*** “How can you, of all people, say that to me?” She turned sideways stifling a sob with a fist between her sharp little teeth. Sandor could read her pain. “Whore” “slut” “cunt” and “bitch” were just some of the words that came to light, etched into her lovely ivory skin.  
“Holy fucking seven,” Sandor breathed. He'd a lot of carnage and slaughter, he'd never seen such deliberate destruction of beauty. This took profanity to another level. His fists balled and his blood boiled. Suffused with the urge to kill, Sandor's first thought was to pull the pin on the ever-shuttering box and hack the undead bastard into little pieces. Then a much juicier target occurred to him, and he made to mount the stairs.  
Sansa did not quite subdue her next sob, and the sound wrenched all the anger out of him. There would be plenty of time to pursue vengeance. Just now he needed to tend wounds. He turned to find Sansa still standing, but curled in on herself. Now that he stood between her and the light, he could see the scars much more clearly. From wrists to shoulder were jagged lines and straight, some spelling words like filthy, stupid and worthless, some just randomly marring perfection. He wanted to cover her, to leave, to look away. But Sandor knew the pain she would feel if he did that. He knew it to his very bones. She was sobbing uncontrollably now. Sandor crept toward her. “Li- Sansa,” he said softly.  
She jumped as if startled and looked up at him wonderingly. “I thought you left. I wouldn’t blame you. I’d leave this horror if I could, but it’s me, now. I am stuck in this body that he has marked, forever.” Her words scoured his heart. For most of his life he’d felt the same.  
*** “I was going to go pinch Littlefucker’s head off, but I was always going to come back,” he ground out.  
“Why didn’t you go?” she asked, baffled.  
“Because when I bared my scars to you, not the ones on my face, but the story behind them, you didn’t walk away. I’m sorry that I don't have any kind words to give back to you.”  
“I don’t need words,” and to his shock and delight Sansa wound herself around him, arms, then legs, and once she went up on tiptoe to get her mouth fastened onto his, her tongue. Though kissing was still very new to him, Sandor thought it might grow to be one of his favorite interactions. He threw himself into the kiss with an abandon previously reserved only for swordplay. A very arousing parallel occurred to him between the way Sansa’s sweet lips opened for him, wet and wanting, and happenings below the belt. When she suckled his tongue, he felt his cock start to weep.  
Sandor carefully placed his rough hands on her satiny flesh to support her adventures. He could feel the seems of her scars beneath his palms and it kept him in mind of her hurts. He didn’t want his lust to run away with again. The Stranger knew he’d made wrong moves thinking with his dick. Above all Sandor did not want to scare her again. _Gods, I just want to wrap her in velvet and make sure nothing bad happens to her ever again,_ he thought as he squeezed her to him. _Well, that and to fuck her until she screams my name._  
An eternity of Sansa’s mouth and body melded to his would have suited Sandor perfectly, but his leg began to ache, and when he ignored it, to shake. He cracked an eye to search for something to perch her on. The box of unruly undead was out of the question. There were other crates and barrels stacked about, but they all looked too rough and splintery for her silky scarred skin. _No place to set a lady. Because you don’t fuck a lady in the hold of a ship, dog,_ he chided himself as his eye fell on the kettle. He moved to set Sansa on the lip.  
The change in venue made her blink open her lovely blue orbs. For a moment they stayed fused at eyes and lips, too close to see each other’s scars. Sandor felt Sansa smile, which broke the kiss. He pulled back and her arms loosed from around his neck so that she could support her position by locking them behind her. This precarious position displayed her body to him decadently. *** Just below her collar bone the word “whore” was carved precisely. Across the curve of her belly “barren” had been scrawled. “Cunt” and “slut” were slashed into her thighs. Along with the words raised white scars striped her torso where he assumed her ribs were. Her breasts were clear of writing, but each bore several sets of teeth marks. Her arms and legs bore other marks, some straight and orderly others random. Here and there her body was littered with burn marks.  
*** “Earlier on the ladder, you were afraid I’d seen these.” Sandor said gesturing to her thighs, his fingers coming to rest questioningly on one of the bright blue bows.  
“Yes,” Sansa breathed, and he untied it. The stocking slithered down her shapely calf to pool at her ankle “And last night, when I found out you’d undressed me, I thought you’d seen the rest.”  
“And what could be so bad about that? Know a bit about scars myself.” He rasped in what passed for a light tone from him as he untied the other ribbon.  
Blood bloomed in her cheeks. _She’s sprawled half-naked in front of me, and words make her blush. This is going to be good._ Sandor saw Sansa's throat word in a hard swallow.  
“I had this fantasy…” she trailed off looking down.  
Sandor used one blunt finger to raise her chin, dipping his head at the same time to catch her eye. “I would do a gods damn backflip to make any wish you have come true. Speak and see a dog fetch.”  
Her copper brows drew together and her body straightened as much as it could in its precarious perch. “First of all, that’s the last time I want to hear you refer to yourself as a dog.” Her tone was strident, and Sandor was pleased he’d gotten the predicted reaction from her.  
“Granted,” he barked. “See how easy it is. What’s the next one?”  
One Tully blue eye narrowed at him. He grinned gruesome and unrepentant, having snapped her out of her shyness by sparking her temper. He was proud to show her that he was more than just a sword hand. “It’s impossible now, but I’ll tell you anyway. I had this stupid idea that I could have one night with you in the dark before you’d seen…but in the light of day I realized you, the real you, would not want that.”  
Something in Sandor’s chest swelled so much he thought it might burst. It suddenly seemed like the only cure for it would be to press that ache against her soft teats. _She wasn’t lusting for some fancy knight,_ he thought as he swooped toward her. Just before he was going to scoop her off the rim of the kettle and do gods knew what to her, he saw her flinch. _Dammit, I moved too fast again,_ he thought, freezing. His hands braced on either side of her; he waited, close enough to breathe the same air. “I’m sorry Little Bird; I’ll get better. Can I hold you? I just need—” She flung her arms around him arching up to mold her body and lips to his.  
This time Sandor grabbed a double handful of ass and backed up to lean against a splintery crate. Once seated thus Sandor’s left hand went to the middle of Sansa’s back to press their hearts together, which did in fact, sooth the ache. His right hand slipped into her small clothes. Sandor longed to know if what his nose was telling him was true. _Is she as wet as she smells?_ Even if he had no plans to take her in the hold of this ship, he could still…His thoughts were drowned out by the Sansa’s gasp when his finger brushed the sopping curls of her nether lips. Her hands tightened on his arm and hair respectively, and she ground her self against him. Startled by her fierce reaction, Sandor's hand jerked away. This elicited a tragic little whimper from Sansa, and she ground down even harder, this time against his raging hard-on. It felt better than any fuck he’d ever had because it was Sansa even with his eyes open. “Little Bird, I don’t really know what to do next.” Sandor had always just tossed coins in a pouch and then thrust his dick in a different sort of pouch and pumped repeatedly until he found a momentary release for all the pain and rejection he experienced on a day to day basis. _That is for fucking sure not what I want with Sansa._  
“Neither do I,” she panted, continuing her delicious grind.  
“You said you’d pleasured yourself. Tell me how. Teach me. Even better, show me,” Sandor grated.  
A flush climbed Sansa’s chest, making the white lines of her scars stand out starkly, making her cheeks a heavenly pink. “Help me with the rest of my clothes.”  
Sandor had never moved so fast in his life. Slippers were flicked in either direction stockings tossed, and panties dragged down with teeth. He set her gently on the mound of clothing she’d left when she’d bared herself to him. Sandor very deliberately pointed her lower half toward the light so as not to miss a moment.  
He noticed Sansa’s stiffness, once they settled on the floor of the hold. “Am I looming again?” Sandor asked crouching for her comfort and to allow the light to fall between her legs.  
“Feeling a little shy, I guess,” Sansa admitted.  
Sandor muttered a few explitives under his breath, cursing his slowness. He would have remember that his Little Bird’s flame burns bright, hot, and, fast. “I can kiss you some more,” he offered, careful not to make any sudden movements from above.  
“Can you…um get the cloak from my pack…please?” Sandor felt he would never get tired of watching blood suffuse her cheeks.  
He had no need to ask which cloak. “Aye, my lady.” Sandor tried hard, but he could not quite keep the smirk off his face. His cloak. _The Little Bird has been fucking herself under my cloak for years_ , he thought as he crouched to search for the torn, ragged thing in her pack.  
When Sandor turned back, the requested garment hanging from a clenched fist, he found Sansa standing in all her pale naked glory. Sandor knelt before her registering her visible scars, knowing they detracted not one iota from her true beauty. He could almost feel her invisible scars, and her distress over them wrenched at his gut. “And maybe spread it on a crate…so that I could sit and you would not be towering over me?”  
“No need to make it a question, Little Bird,” he rasped wresting his eyes from her body back to her eyes. “I’m yours to command,” he rose slowly, with a grunt, moving to comply.  
Once elegant arm outstretched to arrest his progress. “I would not command you in this,” her melodic voice and brilliant eyes adamant.  
Sandor met her gaze, understanding moving him to sentiment. “I am happy to follow your lead,” he rasped. The smile she favored him with made his stomach swoop, and he bent to press his mouth against hers hard and deep, trying to explain with a kiss what his tongue could not manage aloud. Her lips parted, warm and wet, reminding Sandor of his next task and his ultimate goal.  
Cradling her skull with one hand and putting the other on the curve of her hip Sandor walked Sansa backward toward the crate, careful to avoid treading on her vulnerable white feet with his big dirty boots. When he was within arm’s length of the crate, he spread the tattered remains of his stained, singed, dyed, tattered, and worn Kings Guard cloak over the rough lid of the crate and lifted Sansa atop it. Her perch set her slightly above him, but still within easy kissing range. They explored the difference in sensation the height swap provided thoroughly.  
Once Sansa was panting and squirmy, Sandor broke the kiss and breathed raggedly in her ear. “Show me.”  
Sansa parted her legs, her lashes down swept and coppery against her rosy cheeks. Sandor’s gaze drew down to the fiery triangle at the apex of her thighs. He smiled to see it was even brighter than the hair on her head. He'd gladly press his face to that fire any day. The light showed him the cleft lined with petal pink fringe. He’d never seen anything lovelier in his life. And the smell of her arousal was heady and intoxicating. Sandor’s mouth flooded with saliva. He longed for a taste but thought it best not to shock her with his base wants. _This is about her._  
A slender, pale hand eclipsed his view, but to his delighted fascination, a digit pressed to either side of her slit, spread Sansa's nether lips, bearing her slick pink cunt to him. His cock twitched, begging to be remembered though Sandor did his best to ignore the rock hard distraction. Sansa used her middle finger to indicate a swollen bud above the opening that was consuming Sandor’s attention. “This is what feels the best on the outside,” she explained her voice catching as she swirled her finger over the indicated area. Torn between watching and wanting desperately to join the touching, Sandor firmly resolved to wait for an invitation, though he did not refrain from touching himself.  
Sansa's finger moved surely across the little pearl, her head thrown back, her hair rioting down from neck to breast like a torrent of fire consuming a mountain range. Her mouth was open emitting the sweetest little trilling cries that made Sandor stroke himself harder through his leather breeches. This was the song he’d dreamed of all those nights in Kings Landing. “Kiss me, please,” she demanded. “I always peak when I imagine you kissing me.” Sandor hastened to comply, careful not to get in the way of her hand. When his tongue delved into her mouth, he thought Sansa might suck it right out of his head. Her hand motions were almost frantic now, and she was still making needy little noises even though their mouths were fused. Sandor felt a bit helpless, wanting simultaneously to continue to enjoy her rapturous state and speed her climax. He swirled his tongue around hers and traced a single calloused finger down her neck and around the side of her breast. Sansa tore her mouth away from the kiss to gasp, “Sandor!” her legs clamping shut over her hand.  
When Sandor heard his name, he lost his head. Needing to thrust against something as he shot his load, he pulled Sansa against him. When her weight came off the crate, it was too much for his weak at the knees bum leg, and they both tumbled to the boards of the hold. Heedless of her change in circumstance Sansa road out the end of her release grinding down on the bulge Sandor’s stiff cock was making in his breeches as Sandor's cock pumped pumped hot jizz all over his own stomach.  
“I told you it would all work out if you let me stay on top,” Sansa said as she grinned wickedly down at him. And he came to realize her laughing blue eyes had permanently shifted his priorities.  
###  
The rest of the evening was spent cleaning up and doing laundry. Sansa squealed when she submerged herself in the much-cooled kettle of water. Sandor worked lather through her hair to get the blood out. Next, they threw all of the laundry into the soapy water once Sansa was bundled out of the kettle into Sandor's traveling furs. She was quite pleased, and not really all that surprised that Sandor helped with everything. He gruffly insisted that he knew a damn site more about doing laundry than she did. One thing was surely true: the man could wring laundry like no other, and it caused no end of interesting rippling bulges in his arms. Sansa was shocked down to her toenails when their hands bumped under the water, and he stopped his scrubbing to link his fingers through hers. Sansa had never thought to formulate an exit strategy to exercising choices over her own body. She’d always assumed that her romanticizing of Sandor Clegane was ridiculous, but what if it wasn’t? What if he didn’t just take what he could get and wander away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary of asterisked areas.  
> 1\. Sandor sees that Ramsy scarred Sansa skin extensively even going so far as to write degrading words on her skin. He is shocked by the lengths gone to, to defile Sansa's beauty. At first Sandor is almost overwhelmed by his need to commit violence. He masters his old patterns and chooses to comfort Sansa instead. Even then the scars are so bad he almost cannot stand to be in same space as the evidence of the hurt she has suffered. But he reaches into his own past pain, and there finds the strength to reach out to her the way she once reached out to him.  
> 2\. This is just a further description of what Ramsy did.
> 
> Obviously this is a big chapter. What did you guys think? Were you disappointed that the did have actual sex? Did it seem realistic that they wouldn't? What was your favorite part?


	22. The Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is really more of an announcement

Hey guys i just finished writing the rough draft of the final chapter of this story. I've always known where it was leading, but now it is semi set in stone, or at least tapped out on my phone.   
So here's the big question: would you all like to jump right the end before we get too far into the new season, or would you like to continue on linerally and read the chapters as they come out? Cast your vote in the comment section by typing skip or continue. Polls will be open until tomorrow.


End file.
